Just Another Brick in the Wall
by FroggyFran
Summary: It's funny, how one might define what punishment is. Russia x Prussia MPREG Yaoi Violence Lemons Complete -For Bouken-Kaze-
1. I don't need no arms around me

Hey guys, me again! I know, it's a big shocker: more mpreg. Sorry, but Bouken-kaze gave me a totally awesome prompt, and I really needed this pairing too, because for Halloween me and my boyfriend are cosplaying Russia and Prussia, respectively haha. That'll be interesting, I'm sure.

So I'm sorry if you guys are tired of my mpreg, but I promise other things soon after this, I SWEAR.

BTW STILL TAKING REQUESTS. And please, if you're going to request a pairing, don't just say "omg I liek, ttly love *insert pairing* so you should do that one!11!!"

The answer is no haha.

If you want me to write something, atleast give me something more to work off of. A scenario, situation, even a place or event or just anything but PLEASE dont just give me a pairing and expect me to do it. I thank Bouken-kaze, because she's the only one who did that lol. So she shall be rewarded.

This will probably go on for 2-3 chapters at best. I also realized there aren't any multi-chapter Russia x Prussia fics on here lol. First time for everything!

Thanks, and please enjoy!

---

He needed to escape.

"There is no escaping," a childish voice reminded him. And he was correct.

That wall just beyond the house loomed high into the sky, and every time he found himself near it, he felt small. It was colorful, and the words that were written upon it in nearly illegible handwriting were sad to him, so sad. He'd touch the words, and he could feel the pain of his people.

"You belong to me now, da?"

No, that wasn't right.

He remembered the attempts: A young man had been shot as he got to the other side, to his little brother's side, the _safe_ side. No one would save him, because they'd probably be shot as well, so he lay there and bled until there was no more blood to be shed. He was only 18.

Prussia had taken freedom for granted.

When Prussia first came with Russia, being dragged the entire way, screaming incessantly at that beast of a man holding him in place like he were some child, he realized he was sent off to die. The Allies decided that he deserved the death penalty.

"Do not think that way," the Russian said after Prussia had voiced his thoughts rather loudly, "If they wanted you dead, they would have killed you when they signed the treaty. But they left you with me! Aren't they nice?"

Prussia had been ready to strike something, his blood steaming up in his veins. But the Russian only smiled and touched him soothingly. It made the Prussian feel dirty.

"You aren't Prussia anymore," he cooed in his ear, and he could practically feel the bite of frost on his breath, "You are East now, da?"

Prussia was still so tired from that blasted war, and his people were crying all the time. When would this all end, he wondered, and when could he be Prussia again?

He reasoned: never.

----

Prussia noticed the little things all of a sudden.

He had too much time to think, he mused, sitting in his big cold lonely room and only having the ceiling to look upon. He had long since counted the floorboards, the ticks on the clock until it struck its hours for the hundredth time, and the veins in the dead shriveled leaves of the flowers long-since placed at his bedside.

So he'd venture out of his room from time to time, because his old self would find itself in need of loud boisterous attention, and the need to be awesome.

It was a house much too large, with too few people. Said people were like ghosts, haunting the long airy hallways and upon being spotted, dashed away.

To say the least, Prussia was lonely.

Too soon, he thought, would it be to spend his time with his Russian captor. And Russia was always gone from his sight anyway, off drinking vodka or planning his Sputniks or threatening America. When he actually was home, or whatever he wanted to call that dreadful place, he was silent and nowhere to be seen, just like the other inhabitance.

Was Prussia the only one who had a soul?

"Hey!" he had screamed one day to that dank empty ceiling, "Where is everyone?"

And no one answered.

So he ran.

But he knew he couldn't run _away_, because there was a giant wall right outside his door, blocking him from his little brother. On bad days, Prussia would run outside and kick the wall and throw things and scream as loud as he could, just anything to take his mind off the fact that he was not needed, or wanted, or even _alive_.

Instead, he ran through the house. He felt like a child.

Running, he realized, gave the ghosts no time to plan, to run away themselves. So he ran fast.

The first ghost he ran into had been a small thing with a shaky body not unlike a rabbit. It had messy curled hair and teary blue eyes, and Prussia had been taken aback.

He hadn't seen another person other than Russia in weeks.

"...Hey there, kid!" he smiled hesitantly, trying to remain somewhat contained, seeing as the boy jumped and trembled at everything Prussia did.

"I-I-!" He squeaked, his hands coming up and pushing him lightly in the chest. If Prussia had thought him a threat, he would have probably flinched away at the touch of a complete stranger, but he only watched in surprise as tears trailed down his young pink cheeks and he looked up at him with terrified eyes. "Y-You! Y-Y-You c-can't be seen t-t-talking t-t-o me!"

"...Why not?" Prussia questioned, but did not receive an answer, because he could feel the air suddenly become frozen with danger and tension.

"Because you are a guest, and he is a servant!"

He turned to face Russia, but the man had already sprinted forward at an absolutely horrifying speed, grabbed a handful of the child's blonde hair in his large hand, and yanked. Prussia watched in dismay as the boy was lifted from the ground with just his toes touching the floor, and a pained scream ripped from his little throat.

"What the fuck!" Prussia shouted in protest, reaching a hand out to tear the Russian from the kid, but his wrist was snatched up by the Russian's free hand, and given a sticky sweet kiss to his palm. Violet eyes stared up at the Prussian for a moment silently, despite the continued scream of the boy who was currently having his hair ripped from his scalp, and the incessant apologies and pleas for forgiveness.

"You are a treasured guest," he whispered into his skin, "and should not be bothered by such rude things as this."

"I'll be the one to decide that!" he growled right back, yanking at his captive hand. The Russian smiled, and with another yank to the boy's hair, and another stomach-churning howl, had Prussia gritting his teeth and stopping. The more he acted up, the worse he treated the kid.

"Now, now..." Russia chided, "Latvia has broken the rules, and he has to be punished."

"What rules? I just said hi to him!" The Communist didn't seem to be paying attention to his words, and let go of his hand in favor of leaving, dragging along the blonde boy that begged with his bloodshot tearful eyes for Prussia to _help him, oh god, help him_. "What are you going to do to him?"

Russia smiled, and he knew the kid could not be saved.

"...Maybe you will learn, one day, when it happens to you."

As he watched the struggling body of the blonde child slowly disappear deeper into the house, and feel the air become pierced with screams and sobs, and smell the strong scent of coppery blood, he knew he never wanted to do wrong by Russia.

---

Despite what people thought of his character, Prussia was a smart man.

It was true that he had a fondness for invading vital regions and pancakes and small fluffy animals and being downright awesome, if he did say so himself, but those days were over.

Those had been the happy days.

He didn't want to disturb the serenity in that goddamn house, because he was sure if he did, something terrible would happen. Something terrible, as in someone else would get hurt. It wasn't so much fear for himself, no, because he was old and ready to die. He was afraid for _that boy_. He never wanted to hear screams like that ever again. Long ago, he had been the terror of Europe, and he had been the man who brought forth screams of pain and fear. But now he was tired, and he was nothing but half a country.

Still, he didn't want anyone to get hurt.

And those big blue eyes haunted his every thought. He should have stopped that bloody communist, and saved that child. But he didn't.

Few times in Prussia's life had he been truly regretful: Not being able to save the Holy Roman Empire, not making Hungary his wife, never telling that old Fritz how much he loved him. And every one of those instances was because he simple _lost his chance_.

So he vowed that he'd never let that happen again.

He'd make things right.

---

Lithuania was the second of the Russian's servants he met. Unlike that rabbit kid, he was tall and proud, and he remembered the tiff he'd had with him back in his younger days, with that Polish Partition and his commonwealth. He'd gotten smaller, Prussia mused, but then again, so had he.

The brunette smiled up at him as he stirred the soup over the large wood-burning stove in the spacious kitchen. "Would you like some?"

The Prussian peered over the pot, inspecting the contents, and when he found it to be familiar, nodded. But he suddenly remembered.

"...Won't you get in trouble with the boss?" he whispered, looking over his shoulder just in case. Lithuania laughed out loud and grabbed a nearby ladle to serve them both a bowl.

"I am not afraid."

"I think you should be," Russia said.

Prussia recognized this moment instantly, and merely wondered how Russia could be so goddamn sneaky. Prussia turned quickly and used himself as a blockade between the Russian and Lithuanian, a snarl in place.

"Don't," he warned, though he was so afraid, because he remembered the cries of that poor boy, and either Lithuania was going to share that same fate, or he was.

"Here you are, Russia-san," Lithuania called out beyond Prussia's guarding back and outspread arms, and handed a bowl of borscht over him. The bulking country accepted it with a happy foreign thank you, and Prussia felt like an idiot.

"You should not be so jumpy, little one," Russia muttered as he stirred his meal, a smirk creeping onto his face, "I am not going to hurt you."

"When then, huh?" he barked, dropping his arms but forming tight fists, "Are you going to fucking burst out of nowhere and attack me like you did that kid?"

Russia's smirk beamed into a full-blown smile, and Prussia could feel his heart in his toes. He could hear Lithuania shift uncomfortably behind him.

"Ah...Latvia has always been a bad boy," he said, and the room nearly darkened. "I told him not to leave his room that day because he had been naughty, and he did! And what kind of father figure would I be if I didn't punish him? East knows what it's like to be a father, da?"

Prussia grit his teeth so hard he thought he might break them. His little brother was like a son to him, and everyone knew that. But he didn't make his brother scream in agony. And beyond that, being called 'East' was not something Prussia was fond of.

"You do not know what the word 'father' means, you dirty communist."

"Maybe," the Russian mused, "but where is your boy? What father abandons their children? Could you not fight harder? My definition of a father is far greater than your own, da?"

He felt his veins twitch with rage and hate, and his blood burst into his body to seep out and fill him with adrenaline. It wasn't his fault! The Allies had torn him away from his brother, and he could do nothing to stop it. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't! He readied himself to lunge at the large nation.

"You dirty fucking-"

Lithuania grabbed him under the arms and held him back, even when his legs flew out and tried their hardest to kick the Russian. Russia's smile did not cease, even as he began to walk out of his kitchen.

"Thanks again for the borscht, Toris. You are such a good boy." And with that, he was gone.

"What the fuck!" he screamed and tugged his arms away from his captor, who put up his hands in polite surrender. "Why the fuck did you stop me?"

"We're all bad at first, he says, and we become good." Lithuania handed the Prussian his meal and smiled. "You have not been punished yet, so you can not understand."

"Why is he waiting so long?" the soup looked good, much to the distaste of Prussia, who wanted to be too angry to eat. "And what punishment?"

Lithuania's face was something that Prussia admired: his eyes were soft with understanding, like that of a mother, and his smiles were so true, unlike his master's. It made Prussia feel easy.

"...He has taken mercy upon you," he whispered over the steam from the broth, "and you should be grateful. Your time will come eventually, when his patience for you is broken, and you will no longer wish to pick fights, but to please him, and please him for your own survival."

"You sound like you're reading from the Bible," Prussia mumbled into his hot soup that nearly tasted of home. Lithuania smiled.

"The Bible might be the only thing I have left for myself, though living here, I know that there is no God."

The contrast of his happy smile and his morbid words made Prussia shiver despite the warmth rushing into his belly from the home cooking, and with that, they ate their meals in silence.

---

One day, he visited his wall. That bloody wall reminded him where he was, and what he had or hadn't done, and everything he would never have the chance to do.

"Brother!"

He nearly ripped off his heavy scarf and jumped the wall. "...W-West?"

"Brother! Gott, brother, I wish to see you again!"

The strong masculine voice of his little brother seized his heart painfully and stole away all of his prior thoughts. He was not supposed to be outside, and he definitely was not supposed to be talking to his little brother, but right then, he wanted nothing more than to break through to the other side and embrace the man he'd raised, and fuck whatever the communist had told him.

"West!" he cried again, ungloved hands splaying against frozen concrete and sticking to the ice, "Shit, West, I fucking miss you!"

"Brother! I'll save you, I will! And I'll tear this wall down and we can be together forever!"

A smile trembled onto his lips, because he knew that'd never happen. As much as he hated the wall that separated his people, this wall would last just as long as he would.

Once the wall was gone, there would be no East: Only _Germany_.

He'd died long before the war. But he'd never tell his brother.

"Sure, West," he said softly, just loud enough for the German on the other side to hear, "You gotta save me, okay?"

"Ja!"

Prussia stared into the unyielding rock vividly painted to symbolize revolution and the desire for freedom, and wondered to himself if he looked hard enough, he could see the proud determined face of his little brother, blue eyes shining with a seriousness Prussia had never taught him, and soft blonde hair done back to be proper and formal.

He wanted to see.

The sound of boots in the snow drifted farther and farther from Prussia's ears, until all he could hear was his own breath being frozen upon immediate exhales.

"You really are a bad boy, da?"

"Leave me be," he hissed into the concrete, unwilling to turn and face his jailer. He suddenly felt the rush of heavy fabric against him, the pressing of warm body to his back. Large gloved hands trapped him to the wall and he looked to either side of him for escape. He knew there would never be one.

"You have broken the rules, comrade," he whispered to the gray sky, just beyond the Prussian's cold ear, "and I have to punish you, da?"

"Fine," Prussia bit out, his hands fisting against the wall despite the icy flakes making his hands difficult to move, "I don't care."

"Ah," Russia let out a long sigh. Prussia looked down to his feet in defeat and anger, examining the two pairs of boots in the ankle-deep snow. "...Do you know how I punish bad children?"

"With a whip? A baseball bat? I don't fucking know." He dared to turn his face to meet the Russian's, and he realized his fate was set when he stared right back into narrow grape-colored eyes and a terrifying smile. He suddenly wished for mercy.

"No, comrade," he hushed into his face, so close he could feel his heat escaping into the frozen air, "By the end of it, you will wish I had used your weapons."

Prussia must have made a fearful face, because Russia huffed out a breathy laugh.

"But do not be so frightened, little one. I will be gentle with you, for you are not like my Baltic servants. You are a guest, and you were once a great and beautiful empire, reputable. No, you will be punished with care, and yet you will still regret disobeying me."

If anything, that only made Prussia more frightened. When Russia took him by the wrist, his large hand nearly crushing his own, he jumped in absolute horror and laid all his weight as far away from the Russian as he could. He did not want to beg for forgiveness, did not want to beg to be spared, because he was too proud. The Russian let out another laugh, this one louder and more real, and tugged roughly. It did not hurt, and Prussia wondered just what punishment of Russia's was deemed merciful, but he was still dragged through the white powder by the heels digging into the ground below to keep him in place. He only watched the trails from their footprints become longer and longer before him, winding about like a snake.

When they reached the huge empty house, Russia stopped him at the door and held both his wrists in his grasp. The Prussian wondered if he was planning on breaking them, the way he squeezed, but Russia only held them for a long, long moment, smiling softly.

"Be calm," he muttered, "Breathe, comrade."

Prussia didn't want to listen to those terrible commands. If he wanted to be tense, he was going to damn well be tense. It wasn't like he could be calm in the presence of this mountain-like man, when he could be easily broken to bits. "It is for your own good, da? I do not require this from you, but I'd rather you do it for yourself."

The albino didn't understand what that meant, but fuck if the lack of movement and struggling wasn't making his body lax and limp. He breathed deeply and exhaled in a long sigh, and Russia chuckled. "Good boy."

Russia let go of Prussia's wrists, and Prussia looked to them to see if there were any bruises. Strangely enough, there weren't, and Russia made work of Prussia's scarf and overcoat, hanging them on a hook on the wall. Prussia eyed the other warily.

"...So what's my punishment? Are you going to bash my brains in or something? Are you letting me go?"

"No, comrade. Unfortunately for you, this will not be painful. At least, it won't be if you do as I say."

Prussia frowned. "What do you mean 'unfortunately'?"

Russia smiled. "Sometimes it is better for your body to hurt rather than other things."

Prussia opened his mouth to ask what that meant as well, because he felt so very lost and that made him feel angry, but the bulking Soviet nation leaned down to steal his words out of his mouth in the most literal way: a kiss.

His lips were chapped from the snow; they both had it, really. Except Prussia felt the cold bite of forever frozen skin, as Russia's nose touched his, and his brown-gloved hands sliding over his arms. Prussia was disgusted with the way his body remained still and pliant, despite the rage filtering into his blood and making him want to bite the tongue that had made its way into his mouth to mingle with his own. It twirled over his teeth, as if teasing him, _asking_ Prussia to bite down and fill his mouth with his poisonous blood.

He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Russia pulled away, bringing with him a line of saliva that trailed down the shorter man's chin. Prussia panted and wiped his fist across his mouth, looking up defiantly at the other.

"...So that's my punishment," he whispered. Russia smiled again, and took him by the hand upstairs to a room Prussia had never seen before, a room that must have been the largest in the house, with a desk and a bed fit for ten, and a window that overlooked Berlin.

"...This is your punishment," Russia told him, and waved a graceful hand toward the bed while he held his wrist in the other. "This time, you will obey me. If you continue to be difficult, I always keep a secret something under my pillow for especially bad boys."

Prussia sighed, keeping his eyes on the hand still holding him in place. It wasn't like this was anything new. He'd lived through insanely trying times, had undergone trials of strength, and he'd finally fallen to it all. He was dead, so what did it matter now?

"Alright."

"Well now," Russia laughed, "That's the right answer!"

Russia took a step forward, an extremely slow step, turning in his pace to face his captive and pull him gently with him. "Do not be frightened, little one. I said I'd be gentle, da?"

"If you're going to be gentle, then what's the punishment?" Prussia was whisked into long hard arms and thrown to the bed playfully, his body jumping a bit on the bouncy mattress before settling. "Hey!"

"It's a surprise!" he answered, grabbing Prussia by the foot and untying his boots for him, "I've never used this punishment on anyone but you! You are special, da?"

Prussia didn't believe that for a moment.

The Russian ripped the tall black combat boots from his legs and tossed them to the floorboards with a thunk, looming over the smaller man creepily until he grabbed hold of his belt and tugged sharply, pulling the flailing Prussian to the edge of the bed and closer to him.

"Are you scared yet, comrade?"

"No," was the immediate answer. The sound of metal jingling filled the quiet room as the belt was undone, and fingers easily unbuttoned the fly to his pants. Prussia's hands shook as they grabbed the sheets beneath him, keeping himself propped up and watching the Russian crouch down to be eyelevel with his crotch. Dangerous purple eyes glared from the edge of the bed with pure mirth. "How about now?"

A palm was pressed flat onto his groin, and he jumped and hissed in shock. When the palm curled into his pants and fished out his erection, he all out moaned.

"There we are, little one," he whispered, running dry gloved fingers along his dick sensually. Prussia leaned forward to push a hand into the Russian's blonde hair, shoving him back with a growl.

"Don't fuck with me, commie." But the threat was the equivalent of telling a child in a candy store to stay calm. Russia smiled.

"Look at this," he cooed, fingers gripping tight around Prussia. The man buckled beneath him unwillingly. "You want me to fuck with you, da?"

In only a moment, the blonde head pressed to Prussia's hand disappeared from his touch and ducked down, forcing himself over the man's crotch and taking him into his mouth.

"Jesus, fuck!" Prussia howled, his mouth agape in a silent scream. Russia hummed happily around the cock in his mouth, his tongue tapping on the head and sucking. Prussia grabbed handfuls of the Russian's sunflower hair and cried out. Russia sucked and sucked until he knew Prussia was about to burst, and let go with a wet pop. The Prussian tried to breathe despite the haze in his brain, his face red with arousal.

"So cute," Russia commented, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tugging down the pants of the Prussian, tossing them aside to the boots. Prussia felt strange, with only his uniform coat on, especially with the Russian towering over him threateningly. "Would you like to take your coat off as well?"

Prussia frowned, but nodded, carefully unbuttoning the little gold pieces one by one until he was in his dress shirt, and shed that too. He shrugged everything off his shoulders, and hesitantly handed it to Russia, who again threw it carelessly aside.

"That's my favorite coat," he growled, closing his legs tightly at his nakedness. But the Soviet was there to grip a knee in each hand, pulling them apart again.

"It will be fine, comrade," Russia assured him; shifting onto the bed and pressing his clothed hips to Prussia's bare ones. Said man groaned quietly as he was pushed back across the bedspread, his erection bobbing with the movement. "You, however, might not be."

"Don't entertain me with your fake kindness," Prussia hissed, red eyes glaring with as much fury as he could muster, lying naked on his back with his legs spread wide. "Get it over with."

Russia made a childish confused face yet thrust his broad hips all the more, making the Prussian choke on his breathe. "Comrade, I was not planning on hurting you, but if you insist on punishment of this kind as well, who am I to deny you?"

So Russia let one knee drop to his side and used the free hand to unbutton his pants and free his own throbbing erection. Prussia immediately regretted his previous words, staring down at that huge cock and knowing exactly where it was going to go. Wait, he wanted to say, I take it back! But there was no more time for regret, and Russia guided his dick into Prussia's tight unprepared ass. One thrust, and Prussia screamed.

"Comrade, you want this pain, da? It's what you wanted!" Russia reminded, letting go of his impressive manhood and taking hold of the trembling abandoned leg at his side, raising it back up into position.

Prussia bit his tongue to draw himself away from the insane ripping between his legs, blood filling his mouth and dripping out the side. He looked down through bleary eyes at the point of entry, how that thick organ pushed past resistant muscles and broke through the thin layers inside. He could see specks of blood coating Russia's cock, but he only held his breathe and threw his head back, willing it all to go away.

"Relax, little one," Russia whispered, running his hand through sweat-matted white hair, "Relax, and I will go slow for you."

Prussia breathed out the word 'fuck' as his head rolled against the bed in agony, but he refused to cry. No, he'd never cry for this man.

"See? You're doing well, comrade!" True to his words, Prussia had finally taken the monstrosity to the hilt, as his insides quivered and bled thoroughly, letting the friction ease with the lubrication. Russia pulled out and stared down at his bloody erection, smiling as always.

"It's as red as your eyes," he said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek, like a proud father. Prussia jerked his face away and snarled. He couldn't speak just yet, with the heavy ache still blaring through his whole body, but he could make some semblance of noise. He was suddenly taken into the bigger man's concrete grip, embraced as the man drove back in slowly. His hands instinctually grabbed onto the arms incasing him and held on for dear life. Prussia doubted he had ever been in that much pain before, but the slow rhythm the Russian was keeping him at, and the over sensitivity in his lower half made him moan quietly into the rough fabric of Russia's coat. With every push, Prussia held his breath and pushed right back. He could feel the warmth surging from the throbbing between his legs up to his belly every time Russia shoved forward, making his taut abs rub against the abandoned erection trapped between them.

"G-Gyeh," he grunted, squeezing his eyes tight as he felt his stomach erupt with pleasure that he'd long since forgotten. The bliss spread through his veins like a wildfire to dry brush, and he cried out as loud as he could, in spite of his determination not to. His legs trapped the Russian inside him, and his back arched away from the mattress beneath his sticky body. Russia smiled that childish smile and drove home for a few more times before stealing himself above Prussia like a tsunami, his huge shadow consuming him whole, and coming deep into his bloody torn hole. They breathed into each other's faces as they calmed down, and Prussia still refused to open his eyes. Russia ran a hand through his white hair again, cooing.

"Your punishment is not over quite yet, I'm afraid, but for now, you are safe."

The words were soft as downy pillows to Prussia, who only took much needed air into his deprived lungs. He rolled tiredly to the side slightly, and lifted his legs high, waiting for Russia to remove himself and end the terrible sensation. And he did, with little difficulty, but let the aftermath of their copulation spill onto the bedspread below, red mixing with sticky white and creating a pink concoction all over the albino's thighs. Russia smiled and trailed a lone finger in it, drawing circles and patterns.

"Stop it," Prussia whispered into the pillows, his thighs still quivering. Russia obliged silently, and carefully, put his softened cock back into his pants and tidied himself. There was a large stain of vivid red beginning to turn brown right at his crotch, but he shrugged and didn't bother with it, sliding onto his stomach beside the somnolent Prussian. Russia rested his cheek against the palm of his hand, simply watching the man flutter his white eyelashes in haziness, tired crimson pupils appearing and disappearing slowly. He smiled as he watched him fall asleep; his hands lax and resting near his face, twitching. He took it into the hand not holding his head up, and traced the contours and folds of skin lightly.

Russia sighed as his gaze fell to the naked stomach sprinkled with droplets of white goo that had nearly dried, and watched it rise and fall gently with life. He touched it longingly, and smiled a smile that he believed he'd never smiled before. It made his face hurt a little bit, from all the truth, he reasoned. Truth wasn't something he'd always been ample with. But he liked it, and leaning down, he kissed the albino's stomach right on the belly button, wishing he could transfer that temporary happiness into it.

"Sleep well, little one."

Maybe it'd work, he mused. He'd never tried it before, after all.

One could only hope.

---

Reference:

= The Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 to seperate the Soviet controlled section of Germany (East Germany) from the Allied controlled sections, mostly British-held West Germany and West Berlin, and stopped nearly all emigration between the two regions. An estimated 5000 people attempted to flee East Germany, and 98-200 were killed for it. It wasn't torn down until 1989, after the Soviet Revolutions took place.

= Peter Fechter was one of the very first to be killed attempting to jump the Berlin Wall, at age 18. His death caused the initial controversy over guarding the wall, as he was shot in the pelvis and left to bleed to death, seeing as no one was brave enough to come near the wall to save him, all while in front of hundreds of witnesses, journalists, and other media based professionals. The Soviets then took better procautions to insure that those that were shot were either shot dead, or at least medically helped to insure better faith in the Soviet Union.

= The country of Prussia was officially dissolved by the Allied Powers after their victory in World War II in 1947. However, since Prussia refers to Germany as "West", and Prussia being more eastern before being dissolved, it seems fitting that he's "East". Also, East Prussia, aquired from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, came under Soviet Rule after World War II as well, yet seperate from East Germany.

= The Polish Partitions refers to the land acquired in 1772 from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth that connected the Duchy of Prussia with the country of Prussia, a division of land between Prussia, Austria, and Russia (Countries intercepted by Russia later became Belarus and several other soviet controlled commonwealths).

= Borscht: Beetroot soup favored majorly in Russia, and also in Prussia. Variations of it involve an assortment of potatoes, cabbages, meats, and sour cream! Yum.

---

Thanks for reading, guys, and next chapter will be up as fast as I can write it! And there will be baby timez. Plus moar sexy timez haha.

(Please Review: It builds my self-esteem immensely)


	2. And I dont need no drugs to calm me

Holy burning bull cocks, you guys. I am soooooo so so sososo sorry that this took so long haha. My whole month's been really hectic, I'm in debt 350 dollars, I recently got back from Los Angeles for my trip to Hetalia Day 2009, and I went to Sabotencon (Yeah I live in Arizona hurr) this weekend, dressed as Russia lol. My boyfriend was Prussia, and oh baby, that was nice~

ANYWAY. I'M STILL SUPER SORRY. TO MAKE UP FOR IT, HERE: HAVE A 20 PAGE LONG CHAPTER. It'll keep you occupied until I shove the other one out of my undeveloped teenage hormone-induced brain. IDK HOW LONG THAT'LL TAKE LOL.

OH. AND HERE'S SOME FANART I DREW LULZ. Not that great, but I drew it for Bouken-Kaze's birthday haha. I gave her the happier version lol. Here's the IC one~!

http:// i56. photobucket .com/albums/g173/Itachi-Uchiwa/RusPrusSad. png (Without dem spaces, eh?)

Sorrysorrysorry. Here ya'll are, and please review dear god, please review. Makes me write so much faster.

----

Only in the morning did he truly realize what had happened.

He stared straight into the sleeping face of Russia, whose childish visage was lax with rest, his smile gone and replaced by an indifferent line, opened slightly to breathe quietly.

And Prussia liked that.

His legs shifted under the blanket he knew he hadn't gone to sleep with, his naked skin cold in the crisp sheets. His back smarted angrily, and his thighs were coated stiffly in long-since dried blood and semen. But he only watched the face beside his, memorizing it. His hands dug under the pillow as he tried to get comfortable again and maybe get a few more winks of sleep before actually getting up, and he felt strange cold steel at his fingertips. Curiosity peaked, he took hold of the object under the pillow and pulled it out into view.

A Nagant M1895 Revolver.

He stared at it in just the same fashion he had his slumbering bedmate, examining and studying it, running his fingers over the cold steel barrel.

He brought it to his temple, and popped it against his head.

"Bang," he said.

Then he brought it over to the temple of his sleeping jailer, and popped it against his head too.

"Bang," Russia said, smiling up at the man beside him.

Prussia stared into those suddenly warm plum eyes, his own face indifferent.

"And what would you do then?" Russia asked, his hands curling lightly against the sheets. He was naked, despite him being clothed the night before, much to the Prussian's dismay, but he didn't care. He let his eyes briefly stroll across the muscled expanse of snow-white skin not hidden by the thin sheet covering the man's hips. It was bloody freezing, but the Russian was so used to it, it nearly scared him.

"You'd be dead," he answered quietly, "So I'd run away."

"You are good at running."

"And I wish you were dead."

The logic escaped him, but he was so dazed by the night before and his lower body ached in pure agony yet gave off a sated wave of pleasure and dulled his senses. Russia smiled into his pillow, closing his eyes and breathing softly. "Don't they all."

Prussia didn't say anything after that. He put the gun back under his pillow as silently as he'd taken it, and watched the man beside him fall back asleep.

There was no regret.

---

The next time he'd woken up, he was alone.

And had he been his old self, he would have told the empty room how fun it was being alone.

But now, it felt disgusting.

His knees shifted up, sliding in freezing bedding, making his lower half screech in pain. But he didn't care, and hugged his pillow tight.

He soon became restless, and as he slithered to the edge of the bed, he let his legs fall over the side. He had to grow the courage to stand, but his back, by God his back, denied him every time he put pressure on his feet, his spine screamed at him and made him lie back.

This'd take a while.

And right as he thought, he wasn't able to stand on his own two feet for a good hour. And as soon as he took his first steps, he directed them toward the adjacent washroom. He doubted he had the strength to stand for a shower, so the moment his toes touched the frozen porcelain of the tub, he slowly laid down into it. Moments later, he reached over and turned the knob, letting icy water burst against his shoulders from the tap. It'd be nearly too long for the water to actually turn hot.

"...M-M..."

His eyes shot over to the door he'd left ajar to find the rabbit boy holding a fluffy towel and some other goods. Working against his insane injuries, he grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled himself sharply into a sitting position, staring with wide eyes. The boy was immediately startled, his face reddening.

"I-I-I'm s-s-sorry! I'll l-l-leave!"

"Wait, no! It's fine!" Prussia rushed out before he could drop the things and high tail it. "Really, you're fine!"

The rabbit boy stared at him warily. Prussia suddenly noticed the dark swelling around his left eye and the angry infected cut along the side of his right cheek. His hands were nearly covered in white bandage, and from beyond his collar one could see the furious purple and green bruising that resembled handprints.

"...You're fine," he repeated in a whisper, not knowing whether to be relieved that the kid wasn't extremely injured, or angry that he'd been injured at all.

"...I-I-I have some things Mr. Russia w-w-wanted to g-g-give you..." he muttered, walking further into the bathroom with hesitant steps, or limps, really. He set the towel onto the towel rack beside the porcelain basin and set some things onto the sink counter, some things catching Prussia's eye in particular: a plate of eggs and bread, a tall glass of water, and a full bottle of what he could only assume were painkillers. Prussia mildly wondered in Russia gave him that many in hopes of him overdosing, or at least trying and therefore breaking his "rules" in which he would be "punished" again. He let his lips twitch into an ill smirk.

"Thanks, kid," he voiced, leaning back and enveloping himself in the warm water to keep away from the house's frigid air. "And I'm sorry."

He glanced over to gauge his reaction, but it was only a timid smile and the shifting of his hands curling together before him. "...D-D-Don't be. I mean, I d-disob-beyed Mr. Russia, s-so I deserved it..."

"Don't think like that," Prussia said as least threatening as possible as to not terrify the youth. "That communist is fucking crazy. I wouldn't listen to anything he says."

Latvia smiled again. "...But you are different."

Prussia asked what he meant, but the blonde teenager shook his curly haired head and bowed in retreat, leaving the Prussian to feel out of the loop.

---

"Your brother is being punished for your disobedience too."

Prussia frowned at the man reclining in his office chair, papers spread across the old mahogany desk in disarray and his smile not showing a single sign of distress towards it.

"...What have you done?" he asked quietly, his fists trained at his side, because he knew he could not fight this man when he could barely stand.

"I have cut off my railroads to him," he said, shrugging. "West Berlin will be starving soon."

Prussia's frown instantly turned feral, with sharp white teeth glaring at the Russian with what fury his enraged red eyes surely couldn't. "You have no right to do that!"

"I do, little one." He smiled still, with even more smugness, "They are my railways, da?"

"You won't get away with this, you fucking commie!" he screamed, finally raising his hand to point in absolute anger. But that had been his downfall, because next thing he knew, he was bent over that messy desk with his face pressed against inky documents and sharp crumpled paper balls.

"You do not raise your hands to me, East," he coos into the albino's neck, which was still so very red and bitten from their first night together, "because I am the master, and you are the servant."

"...I thought you said... I was a guest," he wheezed out, lungs being crushed beneath the bulking Siberian nation on top of him.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Russia laughed then. "Forgive me, I have mixed up my words. You might be a guest, but I am still master of this house, yes? That is what I meant to say."

Prussia doubted it, but as he felt unusually soft kisses placed at the nape of his neck, right above the scabbed bite marks from a previous night that suddenly seemed so long ago, he felt himself giving in. _Don't fucking do it!_ He screamed in his head as he realized that his body was relaxing and his legs were spreading. _You better not fucking do it!_

But he did, as much as he hated himself for it. Because when Russia unbuckled his pants and ripped them down to his knees, pressing his girth forward and into him, all he could do was moan.

He wondered if he'd become a masochist.

---

It became a regular thing for Prussia to wake up with only an angry backside to greet him. He wasn't really fond of this "good morning", but he couldn't say the night before hadn't been satisfying.

It always was, no matter how much blood he spilled onto the sheets.

Some nights would be soft and uncharacteristic for the Soviet, with large calloused hands gentle and hesitant. But Prussia would end that with a few angry words and a few serious kicks, and they'd be right back to raw painful fucking.

It was Prussia's choice.

He didn't want sap and love and attachment. He was too old for things like that. He wanted pain and blood and biting and that distantly dull throb that told him he was still _alive_. He was nearly grateful.

Or he would be, if the same man hadn't been starving his little brother and killing all his people.

Russia had warned him, after he'd spoken with his brother over the wall, that if he ever caught him doing that again he'd punish him. But of course Prussia thought that the punishment was _that_ kind of punishment, and he almost welcomed it. So he took no heed.

"West! West, hey, are you okay? Are you doing alright?" he screamed over the wall. The guards on the lookout towers merely glanced at him before returning to their jobs. They had been ordered not to harm the nations.

"Brother! It's you who I'm worried about!"

Prussia scoffed.

"No way, bro! I'm doing peachy. Could go for some heating in my room, but I'm fine!" He wasn't about to tell his brother about his nightly escapades, and how the bleeding of his welcomed wounds made his snowy footprints pink. "I heard about the railroads! Is everyone okay? Are you getting food?"

Germany didn't answer for a bit, but Prussia could hear the smile in his voice when he did.

"Alfred has been helping us! And...And I didn't think he would, after...What I did...But he has, and so has Arthur, and there are planes coming in every ten minutes, brother! My people are happy and so very grateful, and I can't thank the Allies more!"

Prussia let a wave of relief wash over his whole body right then, making his knees wobble unsteadily and his lungs force out air painfully. His brother was okay.

"Awesome, West. I'm glad you aren't hurt."

"No, brother, I'm just as happy as my people, because we know we are winning against Russia! This Iron Curtain will fall quickly at this rate, and that's just a step closer to breaking down this damn wall!" There was a moment of silence again. "...Are you sure you are fine, brother?"

_I can't hide much from you, can I, West?_ "Bro, don't worry. It's just really fucking cold, ya know, and Russia has a thing against heaters. I'm being fed and given treats and he even takes me on my daily walks."

Germany's booming laugh made Prussia's heart melt like an ice cube in a microwave.

"Brother, I wish to see you soon!"

"...You too, West. You too."

"So what am I going to do with you?" was whispered in his ear, and he stiffened.

"...How do you always find me?"

"I'm always looking in the right places," Russia said.

"Bullshit." Prussia turned to the taller man looming close, "You can't keep me away from my little brother."

Russia smiled.

"But I can!"

"You monster!" shot over the frozen concrete wall from Germany, and Prussia sighed. "West, it's alright. Take care of your people, okay?"

"Wait, broth-"

"We have important matters to attend to," Russia called right back, placing a large gloved hand on the small of Prussia's back. Germany could be heard shouting over that bleak guarded wall for as long as Prussia was in range. Russia pushed him none too gently back towards the house, and all Prussia could do was stare at his snow covered boots.

"Do you like being punished?"

"Yes," Prussia admitted in a moment of certainty. Russia laughed.

"Then I'll have to resort to my regular punishment, since you do not learn as quickly as my Baltics."

Prussia gave in.

The sound of the front entrance door slamming heavily was the last bit of warning Prussia received about his new punishment. He was suddenly grabbed by the short white hair of his head and hauled into a room he had never seen before. There wasn't much struggling, as he knew that the punishment he would endure was inevitable.

In the room there contained a single chain hanging from the ceiling, handcuffs included, and a short box lying innocently beside it.

"Come now. Do you want to know what my Latvia does when he's in here?"

"You son of a bitch," Prussia growled, trying to slide out of the Russian's grip as he dragged him to the chain and tied his wrists to it.

"He sings."

The albino wasn't sure if he meant singing as in the sound of screams resembled music in the ears of the psychopathic murderer, or if Latvia really did sing, as if it would soothe the demon withholding him, or even calm himself down and be accepting.

When the Russian rummaged through the box by his feet and retrieved a long leather whip, fraying with age and use, Prussia could only stare in horror. Russia smiled wide, and once he had it unfurled, he raised it above his head in a position ready to strike, and strike hard.

"So sing for me too."

---

By the time he woke up, he'd already been bandaged and cared for.

His eyes were practically swollen shut, from however many times Russia snapped his fist across his face, but he didn't really mind. There wasn't much to see anyway. But he could see a little out of his right eye, since Russia favored his right hand, apparently, and when he opened it as wide as it could, he took a moment to focus on the girl sitting beside his bed. Her hair was a pale, pale blonde, and her eyes were as cold as Siberia.

"...Hello," he greeted her quietly. His voice was fine, as he did not scream so easily under torture. The girl turned her eyes away from the book she had been reading to stare at him intently, and Prussia realized that's what Russia would look like if he never smiled. It was terrifying.

"Brother has insisted that I care for you, even though we have servants to do it," she said, huffing a little, "He said something about a 'feminine need'."

"Do I look like I have any 'feminine need', sweetheart?"

She narrowed her blue eyes and Prussia shut his mouth. "I only listen to brother. He wanted me here, so I'll be here."

"Is he your older brother?"

"Yes. Katyusha is older than both of us."

Prussia turned this over in his head for a moment, and the girl returned to her book, only to be interrupted.

"What's your name?"

"Natalia," she said, not looking away from the page. Prussia closed his throbbing eye and sighed.

"I have a little brother," he said, "You're nearly as old as him."

Belarus didn't say anything, but she looked back to him, even though he didn't do the same for her.

"Of what significance is that?"

"I'm a big brother too."

Belarus stared at him still, and slowly shut her book closed, placing it on his bedside table. Prussia turned his head against the pillow, his gauze-covered neck telling him he shouldn't, but he was never one to follow orders, not even from his own body.

"...I'll rewrap your back," she offered quietly, hesitantly, like she'd never given off kindness. Prussia rolled his head toward her voice, since his eyes hurt much too acutely.

"...Would you really?" he asked, smiling. She couldn't just nod, because he couldn't see her, so she voiced a yes and placed her hand in his to gently pull him up. He hissed and quickly hid it between bleeding cracked lips, but he was eventually sitting up, and Belarus was behind him with her plasters and strips of gauze.

"...That's strange," she muttered. "...Your stomach is untouched."

"Hm?" Prussia put a hand down to his naked stomach and felt for any wounds, but there were none. His body ached in all areas but there, even his legs, strained and scraped by concrete floor. "...You're right."

She didn't say anything else of it, and leaned against Prussia's back to wrap around his chest. Her breath was warm in his ear, her hands soft and feminine.

"Does he punish you too?"

Belarus hitched, but continued only faster.

"Never."

Prussia stared into his swollen eyelids, his world black and painful.

"Do you want him to?"

Belarus tugged at the bindings angrily all of a sudden, letting out a furious cry and throwing Prussia back down to the bed. She straddled him forcefully, her hands wringing in the pillows beside his head. He still couldn't see her, but he was sure she had been giving him the worst glare he'd never see.

"You don't know how lucky you are!" she screamed, and her voice still retained her stoic character, "He looks at you all the time, and I can't even recall how long I've wanted him to look at me with those eyes! I want to be in his bed, with his love, his child!"

Prussia frowned. _Child?_ "...Why won't he take you?"

"If I knew what kept him from me, I would do everything in my power to destroy it!"

Prussia was silent, and Belarus shook with rage. "You cannot understand."

"Yeah," he answered softly, to not infuriate her further, "You're probably right."

Natalia took her shaky breaths in, staring down at this sightless pity of a man, bruised and battered by the hands of her very own brother. She wished for that pain, too, if it meant the same for her as it did for him.

"...I'm finished," she whispered gruffly, removing herself from the Prussian and stalking out of the room. Prussia sighed in exasperation, and turned onto his side slowly, trying to forget the throbbing he was getting too familiar with lately.

---

It didn't take long for Prussia to get back on his awesome feet, but it was nearly too long until he willed himself to see Russia again.

But by then, sickness had set on him like a torrent, and his stomach churned and his head ached with fire constantly. He reminded himself of his prior injuries, and deduced that it was infection setting in, but then it continued for days and weeks and months, and he simply didn't know.

He was dead, he mused. Maybe his physical body had finally given up over the millennia. He'd been dead for 20-something years, by God, who knew what was supposed to happen? The only other empire he knew that had died was the Holy Roman Empire, but he was dead and _gone_, and in his place, there had been little Ludwig.

That blue eyed, blonde haired babe had been the keeper of his heart.

Yet times had changed them both, and now Ludwig had grown into a fine young rule-abiding general, and Prussia was pushed back into the history books, where he would remain forever, unlike in the world he had lived in for centuries.

Prussia wanted to tell his little brother he was sick. There would be absolutely nothing the young German could do but shout his sympathies and hopes for wellness over that godforsaken wall, yet that would be all Prussia needed to get better.

But there was always the threat of punishment.

And the border of pleasure and torture had been permanently blurred in the albino's mind, because when Russia said "punishment", he wasn't sure which one it was. He did not at all want to repeat the latest of their escapades, but the longer Prussia stayed from that huge luxurious bed and the man that came with it, the more he missed it.

Though all throughout his minor sickness, he had not seen any of the inhabitants of the Berlin mansion, not even the ever-present housewife Lithuania. It seemed that they had all escaped in the night.

And he felt lonely.

There was no one to care for him but himself, no one to talk with, and no one to interact with. He made his own meals and cleaned up his own messes, and he was utterly alone.

So he made sure to always be listening.

His legs were growing more and more shaky and tired as his days progressed, so he'd simply lie against the thick leather couches of the drawing room and stare at the cold white ceilings. His ears could catch any noise.

He could hear the December winds howling against the outer walls of the house, and the attic creaking, because there was a window open up there, he knew. He could hear the groan of the house in the frigid winter, and the hum of a distant heater, one too small for the giant home. The inside was warmer than the outside by only a few degrees, but Prussia didn't mind all too much.

And every day after a meal, Prussia would sit, stare, and listen.

After so many days of that, his stomach grew.

"This is what I get for not going outside," he scolded his belly, slightly rounded in his hands. 'But how can I go outside when the snow is so heavy, and no one is here to motivate me?"

He took no matter to it at first, and focused his attentions fully on the sounds of the house.

At some point, he had caught the noise of keys jingling and a door creaking in its hinges, and immediately bolted up from his familiar place to attend to it.

"Hey!" He cried out, running into the kitchen with his weakened legs and stumbling to a halt.

He stared into the frightened eyes of Lithuania, and the brown paper bags hoisted into his arms suddenly dropped onto the counter with an unhappy crunch. Lithuania pursed his lip and got back to business, shaky hands diving into the bags to retrieve groceries and put them in their respective crannies and cupboards, ignoring the albino.

"Hey," Prussia repeated, pressing his palms to the counter in front of him. Lithuania did not look up at him. "Hey, I'm fucking sick of being ignored. Why won't you talk to me? Where is everyone?"

"I shouldn't talk to you anymore," he whispered just over the hum of the house's weak heater, and still did not look to Prussia. The white-haired man slammed his hand down hard.

"Why not?" he growled, "Is Russia ordering you?"

Lithuania stops in the middle of putting a can of something into a high cupboard to nod slightly. "Why? Why the fuck would he do that?"

The Baltic nation gave him a confused and nearly spiteful look, and Prussia had to take a step back.

"...You haven't realized yet?" he whispered, looking to the doorways shiftily. Prussia shook his head. He was absolutely dumbfounded. But Lithuania hesitated and shook his head wildly. "No...No, I can't possibly tell you. I can't."

"What? What's wrong? Has he given me a death sentence or something?"

Lithuania was silent for a long time, and Prussia was so worried over it. He grit his teeth, and pleaded with his eyes, because he was his only chance of knowing. "Am I going to die?"

Not like that would bother him at all: He'd rather know than become paranoid wondering when and where. "I'm going to die...Aren't I?"

Lithuania's eyes flashed then with pity, sadness, and something Prussia couldn't place, but whatever it was made his blood shiver.

"...No...No, you aren't going to die," he whispered, his eyes dark and desperate, "Something far worse."

Prussia's lips tightened, and he looked down to his feet. "...What is it then?"

"You can't tell anyone," he cried quietly, jumping to Prussia and taking hold of his shoulders passionately. "You can't even tell Russia. He'll know I told you."

Prussia swallowed down his curiosity. It was likely that whatever Lithuania was about to tell Prussia was something he'd definitely have to bring up with Russia, especially if it was something secret he was planning for him. But he didn't want Lithuania to be "punished" for his mouth. "I won't."

Lithuania slipped his hands down under Prussia's arms, and wrapped his arms around the man tightly. Prussia couldn't possibly hug him back, with his nerves so jittery, and the embrace only made him wonder more. Lithuania breathed sweetly against his shoulder, and Prussia admired his chestnut hair.

"You're pregnant."

"Ha ha ha," Prussia laughed, his face stretching into a grin.

"Don't you dare laugh," Lithuania hissed, his fists tightening into his uniform.

So they were silent, because all Prussia wanted to do was laugh. His body shook with the withheld amusement, and Lithuania squeezed him so tightly he thought he'd lose his breath. When he refused to calm down, Lithuania shoved him away as hard as he could, and Prussia choked on his tongue. The brunette's eyes glistened in anger and a desperation Prussia couldn't understand.

"Stop it," he barked, his fists curled at his sides, "Learn to be serious for once in your life!"

Prussia had been serious lots of times. But Lithuania had said ridiculous things, so what was he to do but laugh? "Hey-"

"No! I've told you at my own risk, and you don't even believe me!"

"Alright, I didn't mean-"

Lithuania pointed a furiously shaking finger at the taller man, and in his eyes Prussia could see fresh salty tears.

"You should do well not to make me cross," he whispered, and his breathy words were like fire and brimstone. "When will you learn to be serious?"

And before Prussia could even think to answer, Lithuania shoved him by the shoulders again with an enraged shout, no longer caring who heard them, and bolted loudly from the kitchen. The groceries laid abandoned on the countertops, cupboard doors still open, and Prussia could barely even breathe, much less try to make sense of the outburst. The house was silent for a moment only for the distant slam of a door to interrupt it, and quieted for the last time, making Prussia queasy. His hands shook and his throat felt dry, but he bit his lip and refused to show any more uneasiness to the empty house, because he knew it would laugh at him.

"...You can't be right," he whispered to the walls.

The walls didn't reply.

---

Prussia wanted to march into Russia's office and throw the desk they'd fucked on a few months ago into the ceiling and scream.

But he didn't.

The more Prussia thought about his stomach, the more it grew, it seemed. It knew that Prussia was trying his hardest to ignore the swell, so it only tried its hardest in trying to remind him. And the more it grew, the more Prussia wanted to ask Russia about it.

But he couldn't.

Lithuania hadn't talked to him in weeks. The guilt festered in his gut like a disease, a tumor that got bigger every morning he woke up to a home-cooked breakfast and fresh towels and fluffed pillows. Because even though he'd upset Lithuania, he still wasn't so heartless as to leave him cold and lonely in that blasted house.

His stomach churned with worry, when he sat alone in that huge house, about Russia. Was this the "punishment" he'd originally been given those many months ago, and it had only taken until then to realize it? Had Russia really planned this, or had it been all an accident?

The only thing Prussia was sure of was that he was not a good parent.

He remembered those big aqua eyes and that ruffled blonde hair, and he'd smile: that was his West. He'd make him cakes and wurst and teach him how to ride a bicycle and fight and swim; yet he could not protect him from a boss that killed his own people, and threw the entire world into chaos and war. And he could not protect him from being controlled by three different countries all at once, or save him from the eternal persecution.

What had gone wrong?

But Prussia assumed that, since he'd never heard of a country being pregnant, that his baby would not be a country. There was simply no more room in the world for that. So his baby would be a human?

So it would die before his very eyes?

Prussia shivered in disgust. He didn't even want the creature, much less want to worry about the outcome of it all. He hadn't planned for it, he hadn't even officially consented: this child was the result of an angry fuck one could easily consider rape.

His fingers gripped at the bulge in his uniform irately, fingernails stinging in flesh.

He didn't want this _thing_.

He considered Lithuania's angered face from the weeks back, and hesitated. If he told Russia, he'd get hurt and it would be totally and completely his fault. If he didn't, and he didn't talk to Russia, how long would it take until Russia saw to him? What if he had the baby, and Russia didn't even regard him at all?

Fed up with it, he hefted himself from the couch and stalked over to Russia's huge office down the hall. He peered in through the door that was slightly ajar, watching the Russian run a large hand through his fair hair and sigh, tapping a pen on the documents before him. _Sorry for interrupting you, you sick fuck_, he thought,_ but I'm carrying your fucking kid._

He pushed against the door and let it creak open as loudly as he could. The Russian looked up with pale purple eyes, and smiled beyond the worry of his prior paperwork.

"Little one," he breathed out affectionately, dropping his pen to the desk and leaning back into his chair. The way his eyes darted down to Prussia's stomach did not go unnoticed by said albino. "How are you today?"

"I know about what you did to me. Don't think I'm dumb."

Russia's smile faltered, but then grew twice as big.

"Little one, has Toris been speaking with you?"

And Prussia was caught red-handed, but he couldn't possibly rat out the man who only acted for his benefit. He opened his mouth to reply, but he only choked on his own words. Russia answered for him. "So he has? That's a shame."

The Siberian nation stood abruptly, and made toward Prussia and the door, and it was only obvious that he was off to punish the loud-mouthed housewife.

"W-Wait!" he cried, dashing out the door and jumping up the stairs faster than he should have been able to with his wobbly knees and sick stomach. He stood at the top of the steps, and Russia looked up at him from the bottom of them. His hand rested threateningly on the handrail, and his smile promised pain.

"What are you doing, little East?"

Prussia frowned angrily, the hand of the rail tightening around the wood. "...Don't hurt Toris."

"And why shouldn't I? He told my secret," he said, with a condescending tone that made Prussia's blood pump faster.

"Because I'll throw myself down the stairs."

The hesitance in Russia's face confused Prussia. He couldn't possibly be worrying for his health, no. He couldn't possibly be worrying for the baby either, with a heart made of snow and ice and death. But his eyes twinkled with debate.

"...Little one," he murmured, "Don't be unreasonable."

"I'm not," he answered, finality in his voice. "If you hurt Toris, I'll throw myself down the stairs and the baby will die."

"You couldn't kill a baby," he smiled. But when he took a single step up the staircase, Prussia kicked his left foot out over the edge, standing in a position that if he made the slightest movement, he'd roll down those hard wood steps. Russia's smile melted slowly like ice into an indifferent line, and then to a light frown. "...East, you can't possibly think I'd believe..."

"Try me," he growled, "You forced this...This _thing_ into me, and I can rightfully remove it. It is your child, after all. I don't want it."

Russia's lips twitched and his eyes narrowed, and Prussia had to hesitate himself. Had Russia really wanted a child, or was it still just a convenient device for control?

"...East..." he whispered. He took his step back, removed his curling fist, and looked low to the ground. Prussia wasn't sure how to feel about the forlorn look that rested on the happy-go-lucky Russian's face. "...I won't hurt Toris."

"Promise me," he called out, hoping Russia would at least look him in the eye and remove this clogged feeling in his chest. But he only lowered his head further, and muttered what he wanted to hear. "...I promise."

And it was all done. Russia was silent as he strode back into his office, but this time, Prussia heard the door shut closed, and the unfamiliar sound of a lock click into place.

Never before had victory tasted so sour on his tongue.

---

True to his word, Russia didn't dare be in the same room as Lithuania. The brunette would pass him wondering glances when they were in each other's presence, probably still frightened from the threat of his master, or still angry from Prussia's lack of courtesy and trust.

"I'm sorry," he finally admitted, "that I didn't believe you at first."

Lithuania did not turn from his dinner making. "...You told Russia didn't you?"

"Yeah," he whispered, frowning at the memory of the confrontation, "I made him promise not to hurt you."

"You must have threatened yourself," he scoffed with a dry humor, his hands busy peeling a potato. Prussia studied him for a moment.

"...Does..." he worked out with difficulty, "...Does he care?"

Lithuania's sigh made him wonder all the more, and when he put down the half peeled spud, his curiosity made him jump. "...He...Doesn't know how to treat others as they should." Prussia withheld a snicker, and Lithuania continued. "He wants a baby...In hopes that he can learn from scratch."

"So my baby's an experiment," he laughed, his arms crossing over his chest. Lithuania shook his head with a somber attitude.

"Your baby will be so very much loved, you can not begin to realize."

Prussia doesn't understand at all, actually, so Lithuania picked up his potato and continued to de-skin it. "He hasn't had a child to care for since the czars, and when he lost Anastasia..."

He stopped. Prussia was not one to care for Russian history, really, but he could only assume she had been special to him. Lithuania's face grew dark and a bit irate, and he skinned his potato slower, more carefully.

"...When he lost Anastasia...He was never the same. She had always been his favorite, and he loved her so much, it made me wonder how he could be so cold and cruel, yet warm and gentle for that little girl. When...When they...took her...He nearly killed us all. He went insane, and he called for her day and night, and I couldn't...do anything..."

Lithuania set the potato down finally, devoid of its peel, and pressed the heels of his palms flat onto the countertop. His brows furrowed in thought, and Prussia scowled.

"...Then my baby's a replacement."

"You don't understand," he muttered, a sad smile curling on his lips. "Anastasia can never, never, be replaced. She was Russia's special little girl, and nothing, no matter the amount, can equal what he felt for her. He wants a child of his own, so he can learn to love again. He wants a baby because it might possibly be the only thing left in the world that can't hate him."

Prussia hummed in thought. That was all plausible. And with the look he had seen on Russia's face, it was a definite possibility. "...I told him I didn't want it."

"You probably broke him to pieces," Lithuania whispered sadly, chopping the potato and other vegetables into bite-sized pieces and throwing them into a bubbling pot. "He's wanted a child for too long."

"I can see that, now," he mumbled, shifting on his tired feet. Lithuania let a small smile rest on his rosy lips.

"Please console him quickly. Who knows when he'll break and murder us?"

"Will do," he answered, sliding to one foot and walking out of the kitchen and to Russia's office. The door was always locked these days, it seemed. It had never been locked before. Hesitantly, he rapped his knuckles against the door, and received no answer.

"Ivan," he said loudly against it, his shoulder pressed flat against the wood, "Ivan, may I come in?"

"No," was the reply. The voice muffled through the door sounded weak and sad, only making Prussia feel his heart tighten.

"Ivan, would you like me to throw myself down the stairs?" he threatened without the viper, waiting until he heard the noise of heavy feet in heavy boots drag across the wooden floor, and the click of the lock being turned. The door opened to reveal a miserable Russian with heavy eyes and rings around them. In his hand there was a half empty bottle of premium vodka. It didn't seem to greatly affect Russia, as Prussia thought his blood was made of vodka and poison anyway, but his frown made him wince.

He did not want to admit regret, but it was hard not to, when the smiles he was so used to disappeared.

"...I...I'm not going to," he assured quietly to the floor, because he suddenly couldn't look him in the eye. "I..."

"Do not tell me you are sorry, little one."

Prussia's lips pursed together tightly, his eyebrows furrowing. Never before had he felt guilt this deep.

"I do not want your pity, just as you do not want my child."

And the door closed with a light click before Prussia could even voice himself. He looked up into the chocolate wood angrily. Wasn't he supposed to be the one who was upset?

"Hey, fuck you!" he growled, pounding a fist onto the door. "I'm the one who has to have this fucking thing! You didn't even fucking ask me!"

"Would you have said yes if I did?"

Prussia let the expletives die in his throat.

"Would you have wanted to share a bed with the man who stole everything from you?"

How was he supposed to answer? Their relationship was complicated enough as it was. Yes, fuck yes, Prussia wanted to toss around in the sheets and feel a domination he'd never felt before he met Russia, and fuck until blood coated him thrice. And maybe, just maybe, if Russia had been kind to him, he would have said yes. But he hadn't been, and he'd trapped him like a rabbit, and tortured his little brother, and stolen his dignity and freedom and how was he supposed to like that? A baby was something that only retarded teenagers or loving married couples had, and they weren't either. He held no affection for the man that fathered the swell of his belly, besides that fluttering feeling he got when he woke up and remembered the hard night before, and when he touched the smooth skin beneath a thick scarf and the soft pale hair upon his head, and that anxiety he had every night in his room, wondering if Russia was going to burst into his room and tear the clothes from his body and take him like a man takes his bride on their honeymoon.

"If you had asked," he shouted without thinking, "I would have said yes, you sick fuck!"

The door swung open so fast, a gust of wind blew his hair about his face, and his eyes clashed with the wide purple pupils staring down at him. He could feel his face grow red under the scrutiny.

"...B-But you didn't!" his volume dropped with every syllable, "If...If you had wanted it..."

Prussia didn't finish the sentence, and only swallowed the giant lump growing in his throat. Russia continued to stare at him, and it unnerved the albino. But he was still upset, and deserved to be.

"What...you did was fucking wrong, you bastard." He muttered, his eyebrows creasing in anger, but his lips couldn't help their immature pout. "I don't know how you fucking did it, but you don't just fuck a guy, impregnate him as punishment, and refuse to tell him until it's too fucking late. That's just bullshit. But...If you had told me...I would have...B...Been okay...with it, I guess..."

Prussia was soon face to face with a full-blown grin not unlike one of the Cheshire cat's. He saw the shaking in Russia's hands, the restrained need, and softened his resolve only slightly.

"Gilbert," was affectionately whispered, and Russia was unsure what to do with himself all of a sudden. Prussia sighed, willing the embarrassment from his enflamed cheeks.

"...Don't start your sappy shit, especially when I'm supposed to be mad at you. Fuck, you couldn't even tell me I'm going to have a fucking kid?"

"It was punishment," Russia justified, his eyes glassy with a long-lost happiness. His cheeks were pink with mirth. "I knew you wouldn't want it, so I didn't tell you! Little Gilbert, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I am sorry!"

Russia leaned down to press his suddenly wet face to Prussia's shoulder, his vodka bottle dropping with a loud thud and the gurgling of vodka spilling to the wood floor filled the air with noise. Prussia pressed his hands to the giant's chest and pushed lightly, because he'd gone too long without the closeness he yearned for, and he didn't want it to end so quickly, but he still had his pride, or what was left of it. "You're a fucking retard," he whispered, his own eyes beginning to hurt.

"Oh, little one, I will make you so happy! Our babies will make you happy too!"

"Whoa hey, chill the fuck out, Casanova! It's already enough that I'm squeezing out one of these fuckers for you; I'm not giving you another!"

When Russia lifted his head back up, his smile nearly blinded the albino. Happy tears dripped from his big purple eyes, and they mesmerized Prussia.

"But comrade! I gave you two!"

If his hair weren't already white, it would have become said color at that moment. His mouth trembled as he tried to voice intelligible words.

"Y...Y-Y-You mean..."

"Da!"

He promptly fainted in the arms of the happily waiting Russian above him, who only cuddled the smaller man tightly. His limp body twisted with the soothing shift of the Siberian's steps as he rocked him back and forth, and Prussia's unconsciousness could not bear witness to the grin splitting Russia's face, his tears still striping his cheeks with clear salty streaks.

Anxiety welled in his chest, because he could feel the bulge of a stomach barely pressed to his own, but he forced it down as his eyes closed, shushing himself and the sleeping man in his embrace with honey-sweetened lullabies. He had saved those lullabies for nearly a century, and he'd be damned if he didn't put them to use. His babies couldn't hear it; not when they were barely formed, barely alive, and nestled so deep in their mother's belly.

But really, he pondered, it's best to start early.

---

- Nagant M1895 Revolver: Developed in 1895, it became the standard firearms for army and police officers in Russia as well as Sweden, Norway, Poland, and Greece. Ironically for Ivan, it was the most commonly used weapon weilded by the Bolsheviks.

- The Berlin Blockade of 1948 through 1949 was one of the first major altercations between Russian controlled Berlin and British controlled Berlin, and an upset that triggered the Cold War. The Soviet Union blocked all railroads passing through their territory from Allied-held territory, in an attempt to force Berlin to accept the Soviet's supplies and therefore allow the takeover of the whole city. Much to the surprise and anger of the Soviet Union, the allies bypassed this by organizing the Berlin Airlift, which carried 1300 tons of food into Berlin every day for nearly an entire year. The airlift was as inspirational as it was successful, and completely humiliated the Soviet Union to the point of reinstating the trading with their railroads.

- Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna (1901-1918) was the youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II, the last Tsar of Russia, and the most beloved of any Russian princess. During the Bolshevik revolution of 1917, after the dethroning of Nicholas II, and the civil war it presented, she and her entire family were captured and executed by firing squad in a basement by the Bolshevik secret police. Rumors about her having escaped, as her remains were not found with those of her family, have been kept alive (thanks mostly to imposters claiming to be her and the Disney movie of the same name) until 2008, when the charred bodies of a thirteen-year-old boy (identified as her little brother Alexei Nikolaevich) and one of the four grand duchesses were discovered. Since then, DNA testing has finalized that the remains were Anastasia's, she was in fact murdered, and with her, the last of the Imperial Russian family died away.

Oh god I am such a historyfag. Unf.

Again, please review, I'll get to this as soon as I can.

OH BTW.

...

Fraternal twins or identical twins?

Boys or girls? Boy AND girl?

**YOU DECIIIIIIIDE**

In a review, please give me your vote. And please leave me something than just your vote.

I'll tally it up, and the highest rank gets to burst from Prussia's pseudo-uterus haha. Won't that be great?

Ugh yes. Thanks guys. You're all flippin awesome.


	3. I have seen the writing on the wall

Alright guys! Thank you everyone for the reviews! By God, they're amazing! I've never gotten such in-depth, meaningful reviews!

Hence why this chapter took such little time lol! Ego boost to the max!

UPDATE: At the moment, the poll results are as listed:

Twin Boys = 11 votes

Twin Girls = 3 votes

Fraternal (Boy and Girl) = 7 votes

You take it home, twin boys! You're in the lead! haha. There's still time for you to vote, but I'll only wait a week at most, I think, so get to it if you haven't! This is so fun haha. It won't matter much to the story line which is what, so I don't mind really. A lot of you don't like the girl idea because it will make Russia sad lol. And indeed it would! But that just makes a beter story, doesn't it? lol.

Do not let me sway you haha.

Anyway, here's a brief (if you can call 15 pages brief) history lesson about the Romanov Imperial Family! Just a little something before I start the actual mpreg crackdown lol. More time for voting!

Enjoy, and please review~

---

The boss doesn't make the country, was what America had always told him. And he of all people would know.

But Russia was sick, and the most sick he'd ever felt in his life, at least it felt that way to him.

Was it his boss's fault, or was it just the turn of the century? Well, the millennia, really.

The year was 1905.

Christmas had come and gone, but Russia had been so ill, he couldn't be with his most precious loved ones. His sisters had kept him away from the palace, to make sure that he would not upset the girls. He was thankful; his girls were always so emotional.

But he'd gotten better, by just a bit, to where he could walk and talk and stay awake for longer than half an hour. His blood pumped furiously with the depression of his people, because everyone was on strike. They said that the Tsar didn't care.

Why weren't they happy? His boss was such a nice man, after all.

He remembered when he visited the first week of January, with armfuls of toys and gifts and wonderful treats, and when the maid had bowed low, too low, for him and announced his arrival, he could hear the screech of joy come from the high stories. He barely had time to set his things down before four little creatures barreled down the stairs and attacked him. He felt like a giant, with all those little girls huddled at his legs, so small that they didn't even reach his hip. The oldest shrouded them with her long arms, and brought all her sisters, plus Russia, into her embrace. Russia ruffled their frizzy golden brown hair.

"Good morning, little ones!" he cooed, and a rupture of giggling followed immediately. They bundled up under his coat; hugged at his worn-down boots, and he must have looked ready to burst. He lifted his child-clad foot and took a step forward, and there were more squeals, and Russia's ears could not be happier to hear it.

"Ivan," he was called from the grand staircase. He looked up and raised an arm to salute his boss, but little Tatiana clung to his bicep and was hefted into the air with it.

"Morning, sir!"

"They've missed you," he smiled, his wiry moustache tipping up into his cheeks, and took loud steps down his marble stairs. "You weren't here for Christmas."

"I'm sorry," he answered, his own smile weak and weary, "You know...How it is..."

The Tsar nodded solemnly, his posture as straight and formal as always, as he looked down to his children. "I have some news for you, but nothing is news to you, is it?"

Russia laughed, hauling his arm up and down with Tatiana dangling beneath. "No, nothing is news when I am the news."

"I have...tactics I want to discuss with you, but I simply can't do it with the girls around. I apologize for taking you from them so soon, but it will only be a moment. Sorry, girls."

"Papa!" they whined, pulling down on the Russian's thick coat with all their weight, forcing him down with them. He laughed.

"Malenkayas, I have brought you your Christmas presents! Let me talk with papa, and you can play while I'm gone, da?"

They released him from their tiny gentle grips and clapped excitedly as he handed them each their own boxes wrapped in bright colors and lacey ribbons they'd use for their hair, and tin boxes filled with cookies. They cried out and looked to their father for permission, which was granted with a curt nod. As they tore open their gifts, Russia all gave them a pat on the head before striding over to his boss and trekking up the huge golden staircase.

"You spoil them," Nicholas chuckled, "and I try so hard to keep them modest and plain."

"It is hard, sir. They are as beautiful as their mother."

"Ah, and she's has been so busy with Alexei..."

Russia's smile faltered.

"...Has he gotten any better?"

Nicholas shook his head as they walked. "...I'm afraid not, my friend. He is so pale and fragile, and the doctors tell me he can't live much longer."

Russia's lips tightened to a white line, and focused on the finely plated gold finish of the railing.

"...I am very aware of the disappointment that my people feel...Alix is sensitive to it more than anyone...She feels inadequate," Nicholas explained quietly, eyes forward and burning. "We have waited so long for an heir."

"Sir," Russia whispered, "Do not be sad. I am quite certain that Baby will be fine. You have with you Rasputin, yes?"

"...Yes...He's said to be invincible," he answered, his voice mirthful. Russia's own lightness returned to him.

"He is a man of God, sir, and he will save Baby."

"You can not lie to me," he smiled wide, and his eyes wrinkled with crows' feet. Russia breathed a sigh of relief with the easiness of his boss, and once they reached the top of the stairs, they returned to business.

It wasn't as if Russia had truly doubted his boss. He was a man of valor and principles, and he was so passionate with his family, he couldn't dislike him.

But there was that tickling feeling in the back of his head that told him that he was bad.

He had forgiven him for Khodynka. That had not really been his fault, but that of his own people, who panicked far too often and quickly, and a peaceful and glorious occasion had turned to a tragedy.

There was something else, he knew. He heard about the protests; he could feel them march in his blood; quicken the beat of his heart.

"I'll be going to the Selo tomorrow," he told him, after they'd updated each other. "I won't be back for a month at best."

"Da," Russia confirmed, standing up and stretching, "I shall be the man of the house, then?"

"Please do," Nicholas laughed, "Those girls won't leave you alone for a moment."

"I have missed them so much," he sighed, itching to get back to them, "and I have yet to see Baby!"

"Come then," he stood and walked out of the office, "He'll be happy to see you!"

Russia followed with quick steps. He had not seen him since he was born.

Turning down long elegant hallways, they came upon the Empress, sitting in a cushioned white seat with a tiny bundle nestled to her chest. She looked up at the men walking to her and beamed, albeit politely.

"Ivan!" she cried excitedly, yet trying to keep in mind the babe still upon her bosom. Russia's steps hastened, and once at her side, he knelt down and kissed her hand, looking beyond it to the baby. "He has grown 5 months since you saw him last!"

"Goodness," was breathed from his lips shakily. He removed his glove to gently stroke the boy's head, earning a light jerk towards his touch and a whine, making Russia's heart melt all over again. His skin was pink with life, and his light brown hair grew in a sweet patch upon his little head. His eyes were big and round and milky, and his mouth grew up in a chubby smile. Russia could barely stand to look straight into that innocent little face, as if it were an angel that he was not worthy of seeing. "...Goodness."

"But do not bother with us, now," she chided happily, "My girls have been aching to see you! And Anastasia..."

"Anastasia!" he repeated, standing up abruptly and running back through the second story, hearing the warm booming laughter of Nicholas and the sweet mild snickers of Alexandra just behind him.

When he hit the stairs, and stared down to the girls grouped around their new shiny things, only one little girl, whose presents remained untouched by her feet, stood and stared up at him: That was his little girl.

"You," she hiccupped. Her eyes were watery, and her strawberry hair fell to her sweet little shoulders. Russia wanted to cry too. "You didn't give me my kiss."

"Anya," he cooed as he practically ran down those stairs and slid to his knees as he met her, embracing her entirely as if he were a shawl, draping himself over her tiny little body. "Anya, forgive me." He pressed a kiss to her sweet-smelling orangey hair, and he felt her tiny arms curl as best they could around his chest.

"No one else calls me Anya," she said into his scarf, now covering her whole face. "Only you call me that."

"But you're the only one who calls me Vanya, yes?"

He took the scarf from her face, and poked her in the nose. She shook her head with a squeal, and her eyes were wide with wonder. "Not even Natasya? Katsya?"

"Nyet," he whispered, poking her in the nose again. She shook her head more wildly. "They are afraid of me."

A strange look appeared on the girl child's face. "Why would they be afraid of you?"

Russia was quite sure he wanted to cry at that moment, but he took a deep, deep, breath, and shoved his hands under Anastasia's arms and tossed her into the air.

"Because I'm as big as a bear!"

She screamed happily when he spun her around, and threw her tiny little body in the air only to catch her when she fell. He growled at her loudly, and she pulled on his hair and squealed like a piglet. "A bear!"

At that point, all the girls had dropped their presents in favor of surrounding the large man and pulling him down to the ground, and proceeded to defeat the bear.

---

"What's wrong, Mr. Ivan?"

He didn't answer. He stared out the window at the dead bodies in the snow.

The girls were too short to see past the pane. And he thanked God a hundred times over.

Yet Anastasia sat upon his lap as if he were a throne, and rested her head against his chest.

"He's hurt," she supplied Tatiana, who made a face at her. But she took no mind, and only listened to the sound of her Vanya's blood pumping. "His heart is going crazy."

Russia watched the palace guards shoot into a peaceful protest, and his people fell like rag dolls into the white flaky snow beneath them. Then the white turned red, and he knew he couldn't stop them now. They weren't on orders, it seemed, so who was the idiot assigned to them?

"See, he's not smiling."

Russia concentrated on the massacre just beyond the gates of the estate, and he could feel his insides turn to lead. This was the final straw.

"He's always smiling; no matter what."

He finally looked down to the strawberry head pressed to his ribcage and sighed. But these were his girls, and this child on his lap was his everything.

Yet his own children were being mutilated right outside their door.

And who was he to choose?

"Mr. Ivan," Olga whispered, tugging on his sleeve. The eldest girl looked hopefully up at him as she held his cold-leathered hand. "Should I make you tea?"

"Nyet, Olya. I am fine."

She frowned, knowing he was lying to her, but his hand snuck from hers and ruffled her frizzy hair affectionately, earning him a happy breathy laugh.

"I'm no longer a child: I am nearly ten years old, sir."

"Then you should be playing and having fun, and not worrying for me. Ten is a special year, so use it wisely, and don't grow up so fast."

Anya whined into his coat, devoid of her constant attention. Russia brushed his hand through her light orange hair, and pressed his cheek onto the crown of her little head. With trained eyes, he counted the dead in the snow.

"Never grow up, Anya. You will be my Little One forever, da?"

She nodded against his face, and he could finally close his eyes to the weakness in his heart.

---

The year was 1910.

He was speaking with his Empress, one day, when a little girl stomped up to him with tears and snot dripping down her face.

"Mashka," he called softly, dropping to his knee and holding his hand out, "What is wrong?"

Maria sniffed angrily, putting one hand in his and the other to her eye in hopes of rubbing the tears away. "Anastasia pulled my hair. And then she scratched me." She showed the giant furious red lines on her neck, just below her ear. Russia sighed, and looked beyond the girl to the head of orange peaking from behind a corner.

"Anya," he called tiredly. The head jolted to attention, and her pouting face came into view. "Anya, apologize to your sister."

"No!" she screeched, stomping her foot.

"Anya, you are a big girl now, da? Big girls are polite."

"I don't want to be a big girl!"

"You are being difficult, Little One."

"I don't care!"

Russia looked to his Empress, but she only sighed herself, and escorted herself to her son's room instead of taking her motherly action. Russia then looked to the girl in front of him, with her red puffy eyes and withheld cries shaking her shoulders.

Russia might have been titled "Mother Russia" and the "Motherland", but he didn't know the first thing about taking care of fussy children.

So he did the only thing that he thought would work: ignored her.

"Mashka, come along. We'll get that cleaned and patched, yes?"

Marie stared up at him with watery eyes, and then gave her stunned little sister a glance, before nodding and walking with Russia.

But as soon as Russia had taken her to a washroom, washed her cuts, and plastered them, Olga ran into the room looking rather breathless.

"Olya, what is it?"

"Ivan, sir," she gasped, "Anastasia's climbed a tree in the courtyard and won't come down."

Russia blinked at her. He hadn't expected Anastasia to be so upset. Then again, what did he know about little girls?

"Excuse me, Mashka." And with that, he practically ran down the countless hallways, down that grand staircase, and out into the snowy courtyard.

"Anya!" he called out, looking about in the chilly November air. There were so many trees, and it seemed like none of them held his precious Little One. "Anya, where are you?"

He heard sniffling just a few yards behind him, in a tree resting against the brick wall of the palace. He stomped through the crunching snowflakes and up to the thick brown trunk.

"What are you doing, Anya?" When he wasn't answered, he continued patiently. "You are a big girl-"

"I don't want to be a big girl!" she screamed down at him, her eyes streaked with angry tears. She had no jacket or hat or boots, and her hair had a thin layer of snow on it. "I don't want to be a big girl."

"Why not? Big girls get to do lots of things that little girls can't. Olga gets to help soldiers, soon, and go to parties and wear beautiful dresses-"

"I'm your Little One!"

Russia shut his mouth, and watched the little girl in the tree sob and shake under the falling snow.

"I promised I'd never grow up!"

His heart grew so large, he was afraid it'd burst from his chest. But he exhaled heavily and held out his arms. Anastasia only hiccupped and shook her head.

"I promised!"

"Little one," he whispered, reaching up to gently touch her shivering foot, which immediately gave in and fell to his grasp. She slid into his arms as easily as a bag of flour, and he unhooked his coat to wrap her inside it with him. She trembled and cried against his chest, the snow melting to make them both wet. "You could be a hundred years old, and you would still be my Little One."

"But I'm big now," she muttered into his coat, "You said so yourself."

"You can't stop time," he told her, walking slowly back to the palace. He saw a huddle of maids fussing about, waiting for them just beyond the gate with blankets. "You might be a big girl, and you might grow up and get married-"

"Ew!"

"-But you'll always be smaller than me, da?"

She looked up past the collar of his coat and his scarf with big blue eyes that sparkled like stars.

"...You're right."

"Da. I'm always right."

And when they made it to the front steps of the courtyard, and the nurses and maids covered his Anastasia with soft wool blankets and had ready cups of hot tea, all the while scurrying and causing commotion, he smiled a smile that was only for her:

Only for his Little One.

---

The year was 1918.

"Vanya, you will come with us to church today, yes?"

Russia gave the young woman his full attention, smiling and nodding slowly.

"Of course, Little One."

It was as if her chest had become free of heaviness, and she sighed happily at him. She took her dress into her hands and walked up to him.

"You've gotten so tall," he commented, standing up straight beside her. She was still a good foot and a half shorter than him, but he remembered the days when she was just to his knees so very clearly. He had treasured those days just as he treasured these.

But the Revolution had begun, things had changed, and he had grown troubled again. His children had overthrown the Romanovs, and they had created the Soviet Union.

Russia felt the ever-present queasiness make it's way into his stomach and settle there for God knew how long. In such terrifying and unknowing days, though, the girls could not be too upset.

But Anastasia was bright.

"...You're sick," she stated, her brows furrowed together on her sweet little face. "...Aren't you."

Russia smiled to her as he always had, as cheery as he could be for his Little One. "Nyet, but I have a headache."

"Another revolution," Tatiana sighed, her tone almost amused. Her sisters all looked to the floor, hesitant in getting ready for church. Anastasia's big blue eyes did not leave him for a moment.

"...You could be considered a prophet," she whispered; her bosom pressed to his, yet their innocence remained completely intact. "Will you not tell me?"

Russia wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the crown of her head.

"Some things...Even I can not predict."

"God would tell us, if he wished us to know," she muttered into his chest, "Wouldn't he?"

"Of course," he assured, hands dipping with her spine and warming her through her thin white gown. "God loves you even more than I do."

"That's impossible," she said, and the girls all laughed. Russia then received warm embraces from his duchesses, surrounded by auburn hair and sweet smelling skin and the signs of Romanov beauty and nobility.

How could his children hate them?

But that thought was to be pondered at better times, as they were soon in the house of God. And though it was beyond custom, he had watched them all drop to their knees most dramatically and sob to the floor.

Nobility at it's finest.

They prayed for the dead as they would have prayed during the funeral of their closest relatives, with tears and hacked moans and the pleading for forgiveness.

Yet they were only children. What forgiveness did they need from God?

They should have been thankful to be born into the highest statuses in Russia, and at any other time, they would have. But at that moment in time, it was like a death sentence. They could not leave their home, and they were constantly being threatened, and all because their father was the man who ruled him.

There was something definitely wrong with that.

"...Vanya," was whispered into his ear sadly, and he quickly turned to the girl behind him, whose eyes were narrow in seriousness and her hands shaking with passion. "...I have been forgiven by God, yes?"

"Anya," he whispered right back, looking up into the high pillars of the cathedral, "I can not tell you that. I'm not God, and he never tells me his plans."

They were silent, except for the soft sniffling and drip of tears onto marble floor. Russia, for once, did not take her into his arms. It was killing him.

"...I am going to die, aren't I? There are soldiers everywhere, and there's nowhere to escape to."

"Little One..." he started, but he didn't know what to say beyond that. Anastasia's church dress billowed about her as she sat next to Russia, looking up at the pillars with him. Her eyes rained down her cheeks and onto her lap, but she had no ugly red face: only the saddest tears Russia had ever seen.

"...I knew," she said quietly, "that when those people were killed outside the gates, papa was not going to last long."

"You were so little back then," he stated, as if that fact made everything she'd said wrong. But she laughed a dry laugh.

"I had eyes."

Russia didn't reply, but folded his hands together. He felt the weight of her body leaning on his, and her hair flipped about his shoulder as she rested her head on it.

"I still have eyes."

They stayed that way for what seemed hours, but when her family came to collect her, Russia stayed behind. His stomach was turning on itself.

"Vanya," she sobbed to herself, taking him by the hand. But he shook his head and kissed her palm. It tasted as sweet as it always had.

"Do not worry, Little One. I have become a bit ill. I feel...I should return to my sisters. They'll know what to do with me, da?"

He could see the trembling in her pale shoulders, and kissed the back of her hand too. "I shall see you so soon, you won't even have time to miss me."

"I am so afraid," she whispered like a hiss, her hands tight to her chest, "So frightened."

"Don't be," he answered, clutching his middle a little harder, "God will answer your prayers, Little One."

Boldly, she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, tasting the bite of snow on her country's skin for the first time, and he could feel the burn of a human's love seeping into his pores.

She stepped back, gave him a fleeting look, and continued with her family home, while the Russian stared into the pillars, out the ceiling, into the sky, as if he looked hard enough, he could predict God's agenda.

No such luck.

---

He returned home to his sisters, who took him in their arms despite the depression they all suffered. Belarus combed her fingers through Russia's hair as he bit his lips and wished away the pain of his cramping organs.

"Little brother," Ukraine murmured, handing him medicinal tea with soft gentle motherly hands, "This cannot last much longer, can it? It's been years."

"I do not wish it to end."

The sisters looked to each other before questioning their brother. "If it ends...Then Anastasia-"

"Oh, Ivan," Ukraine sighed, taking her brother into her embrace, mindful of her breasts pressed to his chest. Her hands played with the soft curling strands of hair at the back of his neck. "...You can not stop the inevitable."

Russia stared softly at Belarus, just beyond Ukraine's shoulder. Her hold was warm, caring, and something he truly needed. Risking molestation and violation, he beckoned for his little sister to join. She did, rather hesitantly, which surprised Russia the most, with stiff arms and restrained breath. But he surrounded himself in the arms of the two women, and closed his eyes, willing away the pain and depression and fear.

It didn't work, but at least he had tried.

That very night, the pain was at it's greatest. He tossed and turned and his head was about to split open. A Revolution was deadlier than any plague. It carried on for what seemed like hours, and Russia couldn't possibly sleep.

But then it all disappeared.

His body heaved in a newfound lightness, looking wildly around in the darkness of early morning.

"No," he whispered to himself. He threw himself from his bed, grabbed his coat and shoved his feet into boots, and wrenched the door open. Ukraine was there in a moment, her hair disheveled and her nightgown rumpled.

"Ivan! In God's name, where are you going?"

"It stopped," he told her, his eyes wide and watery, and as soon as she took him in, he was gone and all that was left was an open door and a blizzard of snow curling into the entryway.

He trudged the entire way to the palace, through feet of snow and slush and the burning of his cold face. The sky was black, and the earth was white, but he was so red.

"Red," he muttered angrily.

But he burst through the Selo doors without a single announcement, but no one greeted him, not even the guards, or maids, or nurses. He stood in the grand drawing room, and screamed. It echoed through the stories, and through the walls.

No one answered.

He tore himself through the estate like an enraged beast, ripping doors from their hinges and throwing apart beds when no one lay in them. His boots stomping on the carpet was the only noise he had heard, apart from the smashing and breaking and splitting.

"Where!" he screeched, "Where are you?"

Only the walls heard him.

He had been in the process of raiding the lobby, overturning all the furniture, when he heard the slip and laughter of humans.

He stiffened and looked out the huge windows, eying the glow of a lantern and the faint shape of men as they trudged away from a cellar door. From their stances, they looked drunk. And just from the morning moon, he could see the red.

"Red!"

He bolted out the doors, not having time to catch them, but sprinted toward the cellar door they'd left from. He threw it open, but that's all he could do.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He looked into that dark, black, basement, and just from the white of the moon, he could see. He was unsure of what to do.

Many tragedies had overcome him in his lifetime. The Mongols had invaded him as a child, for God's sake, and he'd been through a hundred wars.

But how could he cope with this?

He looked to the bodies ravaged with bullets, piled over each other, blood staining their beautiful satin clothes. Their faces were blank, or at least those that hadn't had bullets through their brains. Their faces were frozen in horror, and blood had escaped their eyeballs and mouths.

Despite the shaking and absolute terror in his blood, he counted them.

His Emperor lay beside his wife, his beard caked in blood, his head blown open just like the others. He could see the sparkle of jewels littering the ground and corpses, and it somehow became beautiful.

"But," he whispered to the snowy air, "Where is Anastasia?"

He stood up and looked about the cold white and black world around him, but he saw nothing.

He looked in every direction, but all he saw was white. No orange of his princess's hair. No red of those fucking revolutionaries. No nothing.

His world was white. But it would soon be Red.

---

"Ivan!" was called to him, "Ivan, wake up! You dirty fucking commie, wake the fuck up!"

His bed was warm, like the heart he once held for a little girl. It was warm, like his sisters' embraces had been.

And just above him, the warmest body he had ever felt loomed over him like a guardian angel.

"...Little One," he murmured, his voice groggy with sleep, eyes weak from heaviness, mind blurry from memories. "What is it?"

A hand rubbed his cheek none too softly, more like a shove to his face, and he grunted.

"...Y..." the one above him started, "You were...You looked pissed."

Russia did not say anything. "...W...Were you having a nightmare? Because I'd laugh if you did!"

"Little One," he whispered, and his voice drew weary and sad, "Please let me be."

Prussia could have felt a surge of guilt, if he hadn't already blamed that on the children tumbling about in the pit of his stomach. The man he had straddled turned under him a little, as if urging him to get off silently, and closed his teary eyes.

Truth be told, he'd woken to the sound of Russia roaring in his ear, his hands clutching at the sheets as if he were trying to rip them to pieces. Tears had poured from his closed eyes, and his brow was furrowed furiously. Prussia had never seen Russia so emotional.

He'd shaken him awake by sitting on him, rubbing the tears from his face, trying to calm his ravaging fit. And the moment he'd come back to the world of the living, his eyes told him that he never wanted to wake up again.

"Hey," Prussia chirped, falling off Russia and lying face to face with him, "Just kidding!"

Russia opened a sad purple eye to him, to his cocky grin and bright red eyes.

Red.

He sighed, burying his face into his pillow, trying to go back to sleep, maybe even to conjure up another memory of his princess, a happy one, only to jerk at the feeling of a hand lacing itself with his.

"Hey," Prussia repeated, softer, calmingly, "I'm here too, ya know? Can't forget about me!"

Russia had to look at him again, had to. His eyes weren't red like the Devil's.

They were as red as the childish cheeks of his Anya.

As selfish and egotistical as the comment had turned on the tongue of the albino, Russia felt his heart pump with adoration for his effort.

He brought their hands to his lips, where he kissed the knuckles of Prussia's fingers and kept it by his face to breathe in the warmth. As he took time to settle, he felt the Prussian lose all tensions of his own, and with a glance from beneath his tired eyelids, he looked to see him resting too, face charming with sleep. He scooted closer beneath his heavy comforter, resting his head against Prussia's, and drifted off once again, yet with the sweet heat beside him to bar the nightmares away.

"How could I ever forget you, Little One?"

---

God there are a lot of noted for this one... but I like that haha. I'll try to keep it in order:

-Malenkaya = "Little one"

-The Grand Duchesses of Imperial Russia = There were four Grand Duchesses of Nicholas II: The oldest being Olga, then Tatiana, Maria, and the youngest, Anastasia. They were all all raised with respective modesty, as they slept on army cots and took cold baths. Olga and Anastasia were known for being the liveliest, while Maria and Tatiana more subdued and shy. Olga and Tatiana were known as "The Big Pair" and Maria and Anastasia were known as "The Little Pair". They often signed letters with the nickname "OTMA" (Olga Tatiana Maria Anastasia). They were generally closer to their father than they were to their mother.

-Tsarevich Alexei of Imperial Russia = The youngest child of Nicholas II and Alexandra, their only son, and the only heir to the throne. He suffered from a disease known as hemophilia (while unknown in Russia at the time), which is a blood clot disorder. He could not play or do as much as his sisters (as hemophilia was only passed through the male side of the family through his great grandmother), and he was constantly on the verge of death. Grigori Rasputin, a mysterious religious healer, was deemed his personal physician in 1905. He was his mother's favorite child, and was given the appropriate nichname of "Baby".

-Alexandra Feodorovna (Alix of Hesse) = Empress of Imperial Russia alongside Nicholas II. She was constantly criticized for her German heritage and her inability to bear Nicholas II a healthy son and heir. However, her marriage with Nicholas was a very happy and successful one.

-Khodynka Tragedy (May 18, 1896) = Upon the crowning of Nicholas II as Tsar of Russia, a massive banquet was to be held in celebration at Khodynka Field. This banquet would include 150 buffets and 20 pubs, all of which would hand out gifts to Russian citizens. This, however, was a much bigger event than the government had planned for, as the depression spreading through Russia had therefore incured a poverty and hunger issue. Several thousand (some say 500,000) hungry people gathered in the field to recieve their portions, but rumors spread that there was not enough food and gifts for them all, and mass panic broke out. Over 1,000 people were trampled to death, and another 1,000 injured. The incident was blamed on Imperial negligence, and created the first decline in popularity of Nicholas II.

-The (Tsarskoe) Selo = The former home of Imperial Russian nobility, located in the town of Pushkin. The Romanov's would later be transported there under captivity.

-Vanya = Common nickname for "Ivan"

-Natasya and Katsya = Nicknames for Natalia and Katsyusha. Strangely enough, "Natasya" is also a common nickname for "Anastasia".

-Olya = Nickname for "Olga"

-Bloody Sunday (January 22, 1905) = The incident began with a workers strike that had begun the previous year, one that cut off electricity and newspapers in St. Petersburg. The workers had formed a union, asking for better working conditions and wages, and had formed a peaceful march to the Winter Palace in hopes that their desires could at least be heard by the Tsar. Unfortunately, The Tsar had left for the Tsarskoe Selo on January 8th, and would not have been there to recieve them anyway. Not knowing, the marchers paraded up to the palace, only to be fired at by the Imperial guards. The Tsar's officials counted close to 100 dead, while others claim as high as 4000. Despite the total killed, the incident had been a failure to Imperial judgement yet again, as the protesters were peaceful and totally unarmed, and the guards had fired on defenseless citizens. This, again, gave greater reason to dislike Nicholas II.

-Mashka = Nickname for "Maria"

-The Death of the Romanov Family (July 17 1918) = In the early morning of that fateful day, the family and some house servants were rounded up by Bolshevik officers and herded into the cellar of the Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg, of which they had been living in captivity. No one survived the drunken Bolshevik firing squad. Nicholas II was the first to die, by 3 bullets to the chest, and second Alexandra, who was shot point blank in the ear. The children and servants soon followed. However, the shooting became rather difficult, as the girls had sewn jewels into their clothes to keep them hidden from Bolshevik searches. This protected their torsos, but not their heads. All the girls received trauma to their heads, either through bullet wounds or the bashing from the butt of a gun. Alexei was stabbed by a bayonet. It is unknown why Alexei and Anastasia's bodies were removed from the cellar and burned, and what good that did.

-References to "red" and "white" = The term "Reds" was used for Bolshevik forces, and "Whites" were firm loyalists to Nicholas II and Russian Imperialism.

---

Holy crap that's a lot. Sorry, guys, I like my Romanovs haha.

Updating soon, hopefully.

Please review~! And thanks for reading!


	4. Don't think I need anything at all

Oh.

My.

God.

I am so sorry you guys. I can not even begin to describe my utter need for forgiveness.

I can't believe how long this took me.

I was struck with writers block, plus semester finals, PLUS a dire need for money, so I had to work more. My convertible window shattered the other day, and I've been scraping together the funds to buy a new one so I don't have to keep driving with a garbage bag over my back window lmao. And I wanted this to be done yesterday as a Christmas present, but I was just so fucking exhausted it wasn't even funny.

I am so unbelievably sorry. Please forgive me.

In return, here's 26 pages of goo: Figurative AND literal. Complete with lemon AND birth scene! Hot diggity damn.

Oh god I am so so so sorry *hides*

---

Mornings had never felt so dreadful.

Of course, Prussia had always been one to wake late into the day, just barely before the noon sun. He had no alarm clock, and he'd never needed one. Why would anyone need him so early in the morning anyway?

But this was just horrible.

He'd never been a light sleeper, yet it was astounding how quickly he'd toss the covers aside in the middle of the night and rush to his conjoined bathroom, where he'd throw up whatever he'd eaten the previous day. Some mornings, he'd stay glued to that toilet bowl until Russia had to fetch him for lunch

"I let you sleep in because it is good for the babies," he would say, leaning against the doorframe, watching with eyes that Prussia was close to describing as mocking, "Yet you wake up too early!"

"It's not like I have a choice, commie," he'd reply, his throat convulsing and making him heave. His whole body shook violently, and his hands gripped porcelain like a lifeline.

"Ah," Russia sighed, smile ever present, "I must feed you twice as well, yes?"

"Gott," he'd murmur to himself.

It wasn't like he was starving.

But he'd never had such an urgent hunger as this.

He'd eat anything in his path, really. When women say they're eating for two, it's one thing. But when they're eating for three, it's like a feast for every meal.

Prussia wondered if his stomach was even big enough to hold all of it in. Apparently not, he mused, since he woke up every morning throwing it up.

He was glad for Lithuania. Without him, he'd be subject to god knows what sort of pre-natal medicines Russia would prescribe.

"Beets are good for anything," he'd said, 50-pound bags of them on each shoulder. And he'd smiled at Prussia as if he weren't about to force-feed him dirty red roots for the next nine or so months. Lithuania had sighed as he took the vegetables, but smiled all the brighter for his keeper when he babbled about how his babies would be so healthy and happy and beautiful, just as their mother was. And Prussia had thrown a fit to that, because like hell was he going to eat shitty beets every day all the while being called a woman.

"Let him be," Lithuania had told him as he made his courses, "He just wants what's best for you and the babies."

He'd snorted and leaned dangerously back in his chair. "Best for the babies."

It was a daily occurrence, he was sure of it. He'd wake up with bile in his throat, cuddle that toilet until mealtime, eat a few pounds of beets, and lie around like a sack of potatoes.

Speaking of potatoes...

"Why aren't there any fucking potatoes in this fucking house?"

"Potatoes are of no value to you," Russia told him, "They are just starch."

Prussia felt his blood boil, as he eyed the blonde sprawled across the large couch before him. Purple eyes looked up at him tiredly, but he threaded his hands together and rested them over his stomach, smiling. "I have given you beets, da?"

"I don't want your fucking beets!" he screeched. "If I eat another stupid beet, I am going to throw up!"

"But you do that anyway," he pointed out. So Prussia attacked. His arms came forward to choke the Russian, scarf and all, but Russia grabbed him by the elbows and pulled him on top of him. The albino thrashed and snarled like a caged dog.

"Comrade!" Russia laughed, "Calm yourself! You will become sore, yes?"

"Fuck you! I'm like a fucking prisoner! I don't care if I'm sore!"

Russia's smile refused to dissolve, even when he gripped the Prussian by the biceps and threw him around to lie on his back, crushed beneath the giant man with extra softness given to his middle. He shut his mouth as he felt his arms sting and the gaze of the deranged Russian burn holes in his skin. His shadow loomed over him, enveloping him in darkness.

"...Little one," he whispered, "Do not question me when I take care of you. I know what you need."

Prussia didn't further his idea, as much as his throat simmered with unsaid insults, and the way his circulation did not reach beneath the Russian's grip made him just as uneasy. Said man leaned even closer, closer still, until his mouth was at his ear and breathing and God, Prussia could feel his skin tremble.

"You need this, da?" he hushed into his ear, tongue just barely grazing his lobe. Prussia felt his jaw twitch open. "You need me."

Prussia couldn't even argue.

It wasn't as if he'd planned on it. Recently, there were several things he hadn't planned on. But just as recently, he hadn't thought he'd ever be under the control of the Soviet Union. He thought he'd be with Germany forever, because he'd been his big brother, his father, and he'd stay with him until he ceased to be, which even he had surpassed. Yet he was crushed beneath the Union, with his belly full of children and his heart full of confusion and aching and death just beyond the horizon.

When Russia touched him, his skin lit on fire, as if his fingers weren't that of Siberia, of tundra and ice and cold. When he covered him entirely, he felt desire, urgency for more, more, always more. When he felt the welts of weapons, the soreness of his backside, the bruising of his skin, the stickiness of his thighs, he felt whole again.

As if he weren't just half a country.

He found himself leaning up, his forehead touching the giant's own, and ruby red met with vicious violet.

"You won't ever know what I need."

So they tore off each other's clothes and fucked right there on the couch. But as much as Prussia wanted to think it was just the regular rut, violent and bloody and passionate, it wasn't at all. Russia was careful with every movement, almost as if he were to do anything wrong, Prussia would just miscarry all over the cushions. And as much as Prussia thrashed and hit and kicked and begged for the angry painful fucking he was so used to, Russia held him down as gently as he could, ignored all attacks, and "made love" to him, as his little brother would have put it.

"Stop," he whispered, but didn't mean it, not at all. He just wanted the charade to end. "F-Fuck me."

"Nyet, Little One," he whispered, holding a naked thigh in each hand and thrusting forward between them, "You will be nice for this."

Fuck if he was nice. But he watched, over his plump stomach that jumped with each snap of the Russian's hips, how Russia's eyes were closed softly, his breathing unheard, and his smile serene. It irked the albino, because that was that plastic face he used during meetings and time spent around officials. That was not the face he wanted to see above his, the face of the man plundering him of his overrated innocence. "Please."

"No begging can help you," Russia murmured, opening his eyes just a sliver to look the Prussian over in a sweet wine-colored gaze. "Enjoy it, yes?"

He turned his head into the arm of the sofa and stared at the soft cushioned back, feeling the sweet friction deep in him cause his dick to jerk about in unsuppressed need. He was not enjoying the feeling of pressure festering in his stomach in a smooth incline, or the nearly constant thrusting to the nerves nestled in his insides, making him see stars and his mouth drip in salivation. He didn't like it at all.

No he didn't.

His hands needed to tear at something, but his wrists remained crushed at his sides under palms large and calloused. He wanted to bleed, but he was being rocked gently, firmly, against soft plush upholstery. He had to scream and roar, but all that leapt from his lips were mewls and moans that only whores dare emit.

He felt his body sway with sex, vanilla sex, and his lips burned with the lips of another man: the man who owned him.

When he felt ready to burst, he arched and thrashed, any sort of movement that could maybe make the communist's energy and possessiveness flare, maybe make him lose control and take him the way a beast would. But he didn't, and he only gave him a curt laugh and jerk to send him flying over the edge and screaming into the drooled-upon couch arm. Prussia barely even noticed Russia had come deep inside him, as he was too busy trying to see straight and stop moaning with every breath. Hands rested along the bump of his middle as the man himself gathered his head. The communist smiled.

"Calm is nice once in a while, da?" Russia whispered to the intoxicated man beneath him. "Feels good."

"How would you know?" It didn't come out intimidating in any sense, with a body still trembling from passion and red, red eyes glaring as intensely as a child could. He felt sick with pleasure. "When have you ever been gentle?"

"Little One," he murmured, shifting above the man so he could carefully remove himself and make Prussia more comfortable. The albino moaned unwillingly at the movement, sending dull throbs of prior orgasm up his spine. "I have not always been this way."

Prussia frowned, folding his hands over his cum-covered stomach, yet made no mind to be disgusted with it. His words reminded him that he had once been as cruel as Russia, but now he was powerless and merely a piece of property, and everyone had their low days; even Russia, especially Russia. "Yeah? What happened?"

Maybe his cocky attitude was the thing that always got him in trouble, the thing that got him dissolved and owned and tread upon. And when he looked up to the pained face of the Siberian, he knew that must have been it. "Hey," he started, watching Russia become emotional and strange. The man gripped him by the arms painfully, his eyes wide and sad. "Hey now, you don't have to-"

"You do not know what it's like to lose a child," he whispered to him, and Prussia shivered at the absolute panic in his voice, "and I will make sure you never do."

He released him all too quickly, and Prussia pushed himself as far as he could into the cushions of the couch. Russia stood and tidied himself stiffly before stomping off. Prussia groaned up at the ceiling as soon as Russia was out of hearing range and closed his eyes in frustration. He wasn't getting anywhere with that stupid communist, and it looked like it wouldn't be getting better anytime soon.

Prussia didn't want to admit that he liked how things were with Russia. He could admit that he'd become quite the masochist upon entering this godforsaken house, because he liked the way Russia tore at him like a piece of meat and made him squirm with pain and always knew just the way to do it, even if it were for his own sadistic means.

And Russia made it so he wasn't alone.

Because he couldn't be alone as hard as he tried, and that there was not only one human inside him, but _two_, he overlooked the way Russia would ignore him or leave him by himself every morning. Russia had given him _two_ little ones to be with.

He traced circles over his sticky bump and blinked up at the ceiling. He didn't even care when Latvia walked into the living room and cried out in horror at the sight of him. Prussia wasn't sure if it was pitiful or sympathetic, or just the sight of a naked ravaged Prussia made him scream like an American teenager in a slasher movie. But he left as quickly as he had come, and Prussia was just fine with that.

---

Sometimes, Prussia couldn't even leave his bed. He woke up, and he was simply too tired and too achy and far too big, and his body told him to stay the fuck down. So he did.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Estonia asked, standing tall above Prussia's prone form. Prussia turned his head toward the nearest wall and sneered.

"Some dignity," he mumbled, resting his hands over the enormous bulge beneath the blanket of his and Russia's bed.

"Twins are always difficult," he told him, taking a seat on the antique chair at his bedside. He began to peel an apple. "Do not feel you are weak. In this way, you are much stronger than all of us."

"Being swollen like a balloon, ready to burst with two bloody brats, is not my definition of strength."

"Well we have different definitions, now don't we?"

Prussia frowned. Estonia smiled.

"Just be calm," the Baltic sighed, handing the bedridden albino a slice of the naked fruit. He took it silently, yet with an air of unwilling gratitude. "Your babies will be much healthier this way. Try not to think too hard either. This is a time for relaxation."

"How can I relax when all I can think about is how huge I am, and when I'll have to shove these fuckers out of me?" Estonia watched him stuff the apple into his mouth angrily as if eating it harder would take away his worries. He laughed under his breath.

"...You miss Russia, don't you?"

Prussia glared at him so furiously, Estonia was sure it required skill to do so. But he could see the confusion and worry and loss in those bright red eyes, as red as the blood in his veins, even if it were only a little bit. He hid his feelings behind anger, he always had.

But Prussia didn't say anything.

Estonia watched intently for signs of falter, he was always analyzing. Prussia's glare did not weaken nor intensify, but it was constant and focused. His hands clenched in the sheets covering him and his slumbering babies, and his frown twitched in its depth.

"...No," he finally whispered, and turned away from Estonia. The glare was broken, and Estonia had won, but his victory wasn't to be celebrated. The Prussian turned on his side and faced the wall, pulling the covers as high up his body as they could. Estonia was in the process of being ignored. Not that he minded. But if anything, it worried him.

"...If there's anything else, just call for me."

He wasn't given a response, not even a movement of acknowledgement. He gathered up the uneaten apples and their peelings and stared down at the sad albino huddled into the sheets.

"...He loves you," he said to the silent room, his voice louder than it should have been, "It might not seem that way...But you and I both know-"

"Leave," Prussia barked from beneath linens, making no effort to look at him. Estonia nodded to himself, and with loud clunky footsteps on the wooden floors in that deathly quiet room, he left.

"Lying is a sin."

---

The office was deafening.

Russia stared out the window across from his spacious and messy desk. There were snowflakes hitting the glass, creating a constant quiet noise similar to that of rain, yet not heavy, not hard, but soft, tiny, insignificant.

He heard it.

His pen tapped against his desk in anxiety, his hand flexing with the movement it required. It was subconscious, in his distracted and ineffective state, but it only added to the loudness of the empty room. It echoed like the cave of a bear: icy, cold, and stony.

That was Russia.

"Empty," he told the walls, his booming voice sounding so very foreign to him in such a time of loneliness. It rattled the windows, he believed, because his voice was so strong; the only strong thing he had anymore. He heard rather than felt his feet shift, and that echoed just as loudly as his voice had. He heard the hum of the heater somewhere above his head, from the grated vent near the heavy oak door. He could hear his eyelashes brush against his cheeks, he supposed, and his breathing was by far the loudest.

"Empty," he repeated. No one answered him but his own voice.

3 a.m., the clock told him. He glanced back at the papers on his desk, half of them being read over, a quarter of them being signed and officiated, and the last of them being abandoned for his procrastination. Not really, he decided. He was just tired.

Tired of this.

Government was not his strong point; history had told him so. He'd had empires, and his people hadn't liked it. Now he has communism, and they don't like that either.

He thought then of democracy, and the fat bastard that associated with it.

No, he berated himself, not that capitalist pig. Never would he fall to such depths. But it was looking promising. Anything but this union, he thought, anything but this pain.

Because he could feel the turning in his insides, and he felt sick and angry all the time. He could feel the Baltic Nations fighting, and even if it weren't the countries themselves, it was the people. They were his people, technically, and they hated him.

They wanted him dead.

Not surprising. He'd taken them over easily. But that gave him no attachment, no boundaries to the way he could treat them. They were his people by law, yet they'd never truly be his. Just as his people would hate him forever, yet he would love them so much he could barely stand it sometimes, and it'd be thrown back into his face as if he _meant_ for this to happen, no, no, it was Stalin-

_Vanya!_

And it was funny, what the mind can do to a person. He was no human, no, not by any means. He could not live, and he could not, would not, die. But he had a mind of his own, and that was all he needed.

_Vanya! You promised to take me with you to your meeting!_

Russia stared out the window into the blackness, with the white sprinkles of new falling snow, and waited for red.

I'm sorry, Little One, but you are just so little, and it is very far away. Farther than anywhere you've ever been!

_But I am big now! You said so yourself, Vanya!_

He glanced down at the little girl in front of his desk and ruffled her little orange head. Her hair was soft and silky, just like her mother's.

"Nyet, you may be big, but look how big I am, da?" he spread his arms and she watched in awe, "I am very, very, big! And look how small you are compared to me!"

Anastasia puffed out her little pink cheeks and crossed her arms.

_You promised!_

Russia had promised, he remembered, in a fit of love. He'd been foolish, yes, but how could he deny the one little girl he truly, above all else, adored?

"...Anya," he whispered, leaning forward in his chair. She leaned in as well. "...Have you been good for papa?"

_Yes! Yes of course! I am always good!_

Russia smiled. It wasn't good to encourage lying in such a small child, but he couldn't help it. "And have you been good for your sisters?" He watched her pout become puffier, and he laughed.

...Well...I was a little mean to Maria...But I said sorry!

"Da, well," he whispered, "Will you be good for Vanya?" She sprung up in her petite black slippers and clapped her little hands, beaming up at him with total and complete admiration.

_Yes! I would never ever do anything bad to Vanya! I love you, Vanya!_

_I love you!_

He whispered to thin air, his eyes burning with icy tears.

"Da, Little One, Vanya loves you too. He loves you so much."

The room was empty, the pen no longer tapped, the heater no longer hummed, but still the little flakes of snow held no mercy, no sympathy, no remorse for the man beyond the window, and they kept pittering and pattering and Russia kept whispering and smiling.

"You can come to my meeting, Little One. Everyone will see you, see how pretty you are, how cute you are. And they will be jealous, because they wish they had a little princess as pretty as you, as cute as you, and wish they had a princess that loved them as much as you love me. But they won't ever have one, because you are the prettiest and cutest princess in the world. Nyet, in the universe."

Russia pressed his elbows to his knees and buried his face into his cold-leathered hands instead of into the soft bright hair of his baby girl. His eyes burned, his cheeks were red, and his face was tight in a sobbing grimace. He could feel the breaking, the tearing, ripping, cracking, snapping.

"Vanya loves you so much."

---

2:53 a.m., the clock told him.

Prussia stared at it listlessly. The room was black, so very black, and even outside was black. But little white flakes kept pittering and pattering on the window, and the room was deafening.

Quit it, he chided his children, rumbling about in his stomach. They kept him awake, kept him conscious through times in which he definitely did not want to be.

But most of all, they kept him awake to remind him that there was no one sleeping beside him.

Overtime, he supposed. He sat up in the empty bed, in that empty room, in that empty house, and stared out the window. He could not stand it.

He was reluctant to throw aside his covers, because the house was as cold as it was empty, but he threw his tentative legs over the edge of the bed and let his toes barely touch the frozen wood floor. Realizing that he could handle this much cold, he drew the blanket around his frame and stood.

No, his babies told him, don't you dare move us. But Prussia was going to give them their first lesson in discipline, and teach them that they couldn't always get what they wanted.

He was a prime example of that fact.

His stomach churned and his babies threw their tantrums, but he only bit his lip and began to walk, one foot at a time, slowly, carefully, tiredly, deeper into the house. He was going to get Russia into that bed even if it killed him.

Which it wouldn't, but still, fuck if he weren't about to try his hardest.

He could tell what this Cold War was doing to him. It was making him irritable, frustrated, confused, anxious, maybe even cocky. He had to be cockier than America, after all. But all of those traits did not relate to the Russia he knew. Russia was calm, if not a bit insanely so, collected, cruel, cold, yet he was always masked with porcelain happiness that he was sure no one could truly tread upon. He was a happy creature, or at least tried to be. He liked that.

When he hit the stairs, he grabbed his bulge with one hand beneath it for support, and took the steps one by one, slowly and silently, growing closer to the light of Russia's office.

Russia hadn't been sleeping well for months. Prussia knew this, of course, because Russia had promised him a bed that they shared, and he'd been the only one to occupy it at all. He knew he had a little sleep, though, because he'd venture into his office, and find him facedown in a pile of paperwork, sleeping as if he never had before. But Prussia was waiting for the day he crashed, and went berserk and killed them all, because that is something that Prussia couldn't put past the man.

He reached the last step, and felt for the wall around a corner or two before coming upon the only lit room in the house, from where the glow that lit his path originated. He came to the door and pressed a hand to it, it being slightly ajar, and peered into the room.

"...Because you are the prettiest and cutest princess in the world. Nyet, the universe."

He watched the Russian kiss nothing, his words reaching no one's ears but his and the man's own. He watched him press his face into his hands and cry, curling into himself.

"Vanya loves you so much."

He decided after a moment to enter the silent room, and took only one uncertain step to make his presence known. The Russian jerked his head from his hands and straightened his large hulking body up, but he could not hide the crystal tears spilling down his cheeks and the trembling of his lips. He didn't even try.

"What is it?" he asked, and despite the crying and the redness of his face, he says it clearly and coldly, just as he always would speak in tense times. "Is something the matter?"

Prussia didn't say anything, but frowned and wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. He does not want to make Russia cry, even though it's what he's always wanted to do. He took another step, and Russia only asked another question, similar to the others. "Does anything hurt? Contractions?" because for what other reason would Prussia be walking about at this time of night?

"No," Prussia said softly, keeping his eyes on the floor, particularly where Russia had been crying. "...Who were you talking to?"

Russia looked at him as if he had ruined his life. He'd learned his secret, he guessed, but he frowned all the same. Russia looked down at his hands and smiles, while tears simply slid over his spread lips. "I am crazy, da? You think I'm crazy."

Prussia wanted to say something along the lines of "fuck yeah you are, you fucking commie," but he is tired, and at his end, and so is Russia, all the more. And something in him wants to tell him "no, you are only sick. You'll get better." But Prussia can't promise anything.

Prussia finally stood in front of Russia, being so tall over the broken Russian leaning forward as if to fall off his chair. And he stared down at the crown of Russia's silver head, because Russia would not look at him. "...Yeah, you're crazy, but it's not that much of a bad thing."

The Russian glanced warily up at him, and Prussia couldn't stop the throb his heart gave at the sight of those malicious eyes turned soft with emotion and tears, staring only at him. "Unless you're the crazy that kills, I don't have much to worry about...You aren't going to gut me like a fish, are you?"

Russia barely saw the forced humor, and only shook his head. Prussia stepped closer, and his huge stomach was level with Russia's eyes. "Then just shut the fuck up and come to bed."

Russia still stared at him with hurt, and Prussia couldn't possibly think of why. His eyes produced fresh tears that dripped down the last batch that had crystallized on his cheek. He wasn't sure how to help. And he remembered a time where in a situation like this, he would have laughed and insulted the beast and rubbed salt in the wounds. But now he wasn't, now he was different, so different. And he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

"Her name was Anastasia, right?"

And all of a sudden, Russia was at full awareness again. He quit his trembling and his wet eyes were wide on him and his hands jerked about as if he wasn't sure what he wanted to do with them. His voice was as quiet as the pit pat of snow on the window, just as his had.

"...What do you know of her?"

"Well I'm not retarded," Prussia offered, trying and failing to contain his cockiness in the face of a miserable Russian, "You think I'm going to be owned by another country and not read up on their history?"

Russia was silent, and as soon as Prussia realized his attention was drifting back into gloom, he knew he had to keep his mouth running no matter the consequence. "Was she cute?"

"Da," he whispered just above the snow, his eyes still on his wet hands. "...Very cute."

"Yeah?" Prussia asked, stepping even closer, purposefully touching his huge stomach to Russia's down turned head. "Well you've got two kids right in front of your fucking face that have got to be twice, no, three times cuter, because I'm the cutest thing you've ever seen."

Russia looks up and is met with his growing children.

"I'm no math genius," Prussia admits, pressing his hands just over the curve of his belly, "and I know that 2 is less than 5, but I'm pretty sure there's more value in 2 living kids than 5 dead ones."

The words left a sour taste in Prussia's mouth, but they had done their job, and Russia looked into his eyes with revelation. A smile tugged onto his cold pale lips, he could see, and his leathered hands on his tight skin made him shiver.

"...You are right, comrade," Russia murmurs, closing his eyes and pressing his ear to his womb, "I am neglecting you and the malenkayas."

"Mala-what? Whatever. I'm fucking tired, and our bed is cold, and these brats won't stop _kicking_ and I'm about to fucking kick right back!"

"There's always something to complain about, da?" Russia lifted his pale sunflower eyelashes and gazed up at Prussia with such an astoundingly emotional look, that Prussia could have deemed it "loving", if he had had the will and lack of pride. Prussia felt his face grow hot. "Fuck you."

Russia didn't say anything, and it was irking Prussia that he hadn't wiped his face of his drying tears, and he just left them on his cheeks for the world to see, for him to see. He hated it. But Russia's uncharacteristically gentle hands soothed over the wrinkles of fabric in his dully-colored nightshirt, and slowly delved beneath to trace the spidery veins stretching across his once perfect pale skin. He thumped his fingers across the bulge and it sounded hollow, like a drum pulled tight. He felt the twins moving inside him all too clearly, and all too suddenly, they twitched in the worst way. He winced, and Russia's voice hissed in the silent air of the office. Had it been from his serene moment's disturbance or the concern he held so firmly for Prussia, he didn't know. All he knew was that that noise sounded oddly comforting, like a shush or a coo, anything to calm an anxious heart. And the fingertips dancing over his skin only added to his restful piece of mind.

"Come here," Russia whispered, nearly nothing at all. And Prussia barely even had time to comply before those careful hands on his stomach held on and _pulled_ and he was on his lap then, barely, because the twins between kept them well over a foot apart, but he could finally reach Russia's face, and his rough thumbs met his cheeks and scraped away dried crystals of tears all the while being given the sappiest smile Prussia was sure he'd ever seen on the brutal communist. "Thank you."

A grunt was his only reply, and he was nearly speechless when the Russian leaned over and breathed a hot sigh of relief and peace and tranquility and affection and lack of anxiety all over his cheeks, and he felt just the same. Their foreheads bumped together softly, and Prussia couldn't help but close his eyes when faced so near with the man that owned him, body and soul. Russia still pulled, a little tug that had Prussia limp in a second. They leaned back into the soft leather chair, with Prussia straddling the bulking nation and pushing his babies against him firmly, and Russia could only curl in around them like a grand blanket.

They slept there. It would be the first time they'd slept in each other's presence in months. And they slept until the sun rose, rose high, and fell.

They both needed it.

---

"I...I don't want to wake them."

The three brothers stood in the wide doorway to Russia's office, shoulder-to-shoulder like they had been connected their whole lives. In an abnormal show of seriousness, Latvia remained still.

"Well," Estonia murmured softly, fixing his glasses as he watched the pale-haired couple sleep in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position, "I'm sure Gilbert has been missing his little brother very much."

Lithuania bit his lip, clutching his uniform tightly. "...Russia-san hasn't slept in so long..."

The brothers silently agreed, staring carefully at the pair. Prussia's head was cocked softly over Russia's, and his arms curled over his shoulders limply. They breathed in sync.

"But...M-Mr. G-Gilbert..."

Lithuania sighed and patted Latvia on the shoulder gently as to not scare him. "...It's alright, just be very slow and quiet."

Latvia nodded curtly and tiptoed deeper into the office, coming to Prussia's turned back and placing tiny pale fingers at his spine. Prussia shifted with a sighed moan. "M...M-Mr. Gilbert, please w-wake up."

Prussia turned his face in Russia's pale silvery hair to stare at the small Latvian. His red eyes were bleary with sleep. "Wha'dya wan'?"

Latvia put a trembling finger to his lips, "P-Please don't wake M-Mr. Russia! H-He has had trouble s-sleeping!"

Prussia looked down at the still slumbering Russian, his face pressed to Prussia's collarbone in a perpetual kiss. It didn't look like he was waking up any time soon. With an affirmative nod, he slowly slid his legs off from Russia's hips and took both his hands from his shoulders to support his dragging stomach. The moment he left, Lithuania was there to drape a soft fleece blanket over him.

"What's the matter?" he asked as he padded out of the office, his limbs sore from the position he'd slept in. Estonia walked him to the phone by the stairs, and held out the receiver.

"It's Mr. Ludwig."

Prussia latched onto the phone before he could even fully say his name and pressed it sharply to his ear. "West? West?"

"Bruder," was his answer, and Prussia felt his heart grow heavy with so many things: Guilt; anxiety; hope; love; sadness; happiness; the whole shebang. He choked on his tongue, and he barely even noticed that the Baltic nations had left him to his privacy.

They were silent for what seemed hours, and Prussia curled himself into the corner of the wall by the phone, stretching the phone's cord as far as it would go. He listened to his breathing, stiff and proper, as he'd always remembered. He could hear the distant cooing of Italy in the background, and he smiled brightly. It was good to know things were still the same on his side.

"Hey, West," Prussia breathed after a long soundless time, both of his hands gripping the plastic phone piece. His words died an agonizing death on his tongue, and he felt his eyes sting like there was dirt in them.

"What is it, bruder?" Germany whispered just as loud as Prussia had, and it made the albino's chest hurt something fierce. His throat convulsed their muscles, as if to keep him from telling the truth, as if to keep Germany away from him.

"I'm pregnant," he strangled out softly, and he could feel the tears. That stinging hadn't been dirt, it'd been emotion, and fuck if he was going to let it get the best of him. He was fucking Prussia, the greatest European country ever, and he was not going to let the sound of his little brother get to him. Even if he hadn't seen him in months, even if he hadn't had anyone to talk to for the same amount of time, he wasn't going to just give up.

His legs trembled and his nose ran, and he couldn't help the way everything became hazy and the walls and the floor were dirty and cold and he wanted to go _home_.

Germany didn't say anything, but Prussia could no longer hear that strong controlled breath in the receiver. He didn't even hear sweet Italy chattering anymore. All he heard was _nothing_ and he _hated it_.

"Please don't be mad," he whispered wetly, sniffing back his godforsaken tears and rubbing a hand over his moist cheeks and into his messy hair. He withheld his cries, his sobs, and tilted his head back to force his tears back. It wasn't helping, and he cursed anything he could think of to blame it on.

"...I'm not mad," Germany murmured gently, so quickly affected by his brother's crying and unusual politeness and desperation. "...I...Bruder, did he-"

"No, no," Prussia immediately answered, despite the fact that Germany's suspicions were almost entirely true. No, he didn't want the kids, but he'd wanted Russia, as much as he wanted to admit that that too was untrue. "It was my fault."

"Do not lie to me," Germany hissed, and Prussia gulped down more anxiety and fear. "Do not tell me that you _wanted_ this, and from, from that _monster_!"

"Then don't tell me you aren't mad when you are!" he cried out, and he forgot to hold back tears. And then he couldn't speak, because he was too busy trying to breathe through his detained sobs.

They were silent again, but this time, it was not for the sake of peace, of serenity, but because Germany radiated guilt, and Prussia exerted misery. Prussia could imagine Germany's hands running through his hair, just like he always did when he was frustrated, when he let out that familiar exasperated sigh.

"I'm sorry," Germany whispered softly, "I didn't mean..."

But Prussia didn't burst in, and Germany let his sentence trail off. Germany could still hear the labored breath of his dejected brother and the hiccups of whimpers, and it was doing wonders for his heart. "I'm sorry, bruder, I just...You...You have me so worried. And now you're...pregnant...and I don't know what to do with you."

"I'm sorry," Prussia answered right back, afraid of the rejection that was just beyond the tip of his little brother's tongue. He knew it was there, knew it was waiting to be let loose. "Don't hate me, West. You're all I got."

"I could never hate you," Germany admits gently, his breath like a soft spring breeze, and it made Prussia's eyes close and let tears fall from his silver eyelashes. "I...Just want to know...What you were thinking."

"I wasn't," Prussia laughed pitifully, curling tighter, an angry hand pressed to his stomach, "I was too fucking cocky and self-righteous, and I didn't realize the mess I was in until recently. And the strange thing is," he paused, looking to the ceiling, "I don't regret a thing."

"Bruder," Germany hummed warningly, as if threatened, but Prussia brushed it aside.

"I have no fucking clue why," he whispered to the other side, "and I don't know what to fucking call it. Don't tell me it's love, because it's not. It's not pity, and it's not respect. I don't know what it is, all I know is that it's fucking ridiculous."

This time, the last time, the silence was unbearable, and Prussia took to humming low in his throat just to keep the demons at bay. His fingers chased across his stomach, and he grimaced in apprehension. His muscles were tense with worry, and his eyes stung again. No, he told himself, not anymore. "Fuck," he whispered shakily, "You don't hate me...Right, West?"

"I already said I didn't," Germany reassured, his voice warming the frost in Prussia's veins. "You'll still be my bruder, and nothing will change that. Alright?"

"Yeah," Prussia choked out, scrunching his legs up close to him, both hands on the phone again. "...I want to see you."

"I want to see you too," he murmured close to the phone, and Prussia could almost feel the hot breath of his words. "I want to see you with that huge belly."

"Fuck, that's not cool!" and Prussia whole-heartedly laughed. But it died as quickly as it had come, and they were calm again. "You're going to be an uncle, you know."

"Yeah," Germany breathed. He could then hear Italy's voice return, full of curiosity and worry and grief, and it made Prussia smile when he could hear his name being spoken between the two. "Like I don't have enough children to take care of."

"Hey, I take offense to that." Germany grunted playfully and returned to calming the flustered Italian. "Italy wants to speak with you," he says after a moment of whining and crying. Prussia hears the light crackle of movement through the phone as it was passed from one nation to another.

"Gilbert?" he cried, his accent heavy with tears. Prussia laughed.

"Hey, Italy-chan! How's it on the other side?" and for a moment, all he heard was sniffling and hiccups, followed by an actual response.

"It's okay! It's getting nicer every day!" he sobbed, surely getting snot and slobber all over the receiver. "Gilbert, you'll be okay too, right?"

"Of course," he lied through his teeth, stroking his stomach, "Don't you worry, Italy-chan, I'll be home soon, and I'll tell you about all the stuff I've done."

"Are they good things? He's not hurting you, right? Right?" The desperation was so pure in his voice, Prussia could breathe easy.

"No, I am perfectly fine, and yes, they are all good things. All of them," he tells himself. Italy squeals and goes into a rant of good-intention, his voice rising in volume and pitch and number of "vee~"s. Prussia let him go on for as long as he wanted, because to hear that endearing voice after so long was medicine. But all things have to end at some time, and Italy was finally silent.

"Something wrong, Italy-chan?" he asked, his voice weak with weary. The Italian was never quiet.

"...I have a feeling," he started slowly, delicately, "that something will go wrong."

Prussia frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Italy was silent again, and it was nearly making Prussia nervous. Italy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but his heart was always in the right place, sometimes at the wrong time. And that had been the time.

"...I'm not sure," he mutters, and Prussia can only imagine the seriousness on his face, "But...I just know it. I know it."

The pause was unbearable for both of them.

"You aren't a prophet, Italy. You can't even tie your shoes," Germany supplied suddenly, taking the phone from the whiny Italian boy.

Prussia laughed, but he couldn't remove the premonition from his mind.

---

Nine months was a long time, he supposed.

His deadline was getting closer and closer, and not that it made him anxious or anything, but it was...Yeah, it was making him anxious.

He watched as Lithuania set up the kitchen and dining room for dinner easily, as if he could do it with his eyes closed if he wanted. He balanced plates and cups and silverware on his hands and elbows, pots and pans interchanging, and Prussia could barely follow.

"Don't you have anything better to do than stare at me?" the brunette asked, walking back and forth from the stove to the large table. Prussia shook his head.

"You should know my character by now," he told him. It earned him a smile and an early plate of food. Strangely, he wasn't all that hungry. And stranger even, his children were still. "Is this all you do? Cook and clean?"

"Practically," he answered, fishing through the high cupboards for seasonings, "but you're one to talk. All you do is lie around and whine at the walls."

"Hey," Prussia started, but didn't feel like finishing it. It was more of a warning anyway.

"Would you mind getting Russia-san?"

He looked to him questioningly, but he had his back turned as he tended to the cooking food. "I usually just take it to him because he's so busy, but he's been quiet these few days, so I think it will do him some good to eat with his family."

The word sounded so foreign. Lithuania's mouth tasted a little bitter.

"Yeah," Prussia groaned out as he stood up slowly, supporting his stomach with one hand while the other pushed away from his chair. Lithuania turned to him.

"For a minute I forgot you were pregnant," he laughed, setting down his spoon, "Never mind, let me get him."

"No," Prussia hissed, clutching his belly as he waddled, "I'm already up, might as well."

Lithuania hesitantly nodded, a smile still gracing his lips as he watched Prussia struggle to walk down the hallway to the office.

He didn't bother to knock, and just opened the door slowly. "Food's done."

"Ah." He smiled up from his work at the albino, dropping his pen and standing slowly. He arched his back and stretched, looking even more gigantic than usual.

"Hurry it up, my feet hurt."

"Yes, yes," he cooed, gliding his hands to Prussia's shoulders, turning them away from him, and gently pushing him out the door. He should have been putting up a fight about it, but he didn't really mind the feeling of those warm hands at his aching back.

"Toris, it smells good!" he chirped, bringing Prussia back to his chair and helping him sit. That was not as easy to withhold.

"I don't need help sitting, commie," he growled. Russia only smiled and held onto his hand still, sitting beside him rather than at his large throne-like chair at the head of the table. Prussia huffed, but didn't want to know. He was preoccupied with the feeling of Russia running his calloused thumb across the back of his hand. "Would you quit that?"

"Nyet."

The ghosts of the house slowly began to make their appearances. The first was the shaky rabbit boy Prussia had come to like above all the others. He wasn't sure why, either, but he could assume it was because of his fondness for children, despite Latvia being in his teens.

Latvia gave Prussia a smile, a smile that immediately faltered at the sight of the reclusive Russian, and hurried to the other seat beside Prussia. If Russia decided to destroy Latvia in that moment, at least Prussia would be there to save him.

Estonia slipped into the room with little acknowledgement, nodding lightly to the other occupants, and taking a seat closest to the kitchen. Belarus and Ukraine appeared side by side, and sat in the same manner. With everyone seated and quiet, Lithuania began handing out the food, graceful in every move. Prussia would have been impressed, if his stomach weren't throbbing dully. He supposed it was the smell of his dinner, not that it was a bad smell, but his babies must not have liked the selection. He rubbed soothing circles over his girth under the table and breathed slowly.

"Is something the matter, Little One?" was whispered in his ear, and it made his heart sink into his gut and his lung clench in pain and he wasn't sure what was going on. "No," he replied shakily under his breath, the tossing in his belly getting faster and angrier by the second. He wasn't going to bring up something as insignificant as pain, but it was hard not to.

"Gilbert," he heard. He hissed in a breath of cold Russian air and looked up at his captor, "Does it hurt?"

"They just keep moving," he whispered over his lack of oxygen. He yelped suddenly.

Then there was a dripping sound.

Lithuania, who had still been standing, stood as straight as he could, his eyes wide with surprise and recognition. Russia looked to him with a concerned gaze.

"Latvia," he began softly, pressing his hand to the table. He did not look away from Russia. "I will need every towel in the house. Quickly, please."

Latvia tripped over his chair as he complied, more nervous than he'd ever been before.

"Wait," Prussia gasped as Russia and Estonia pulled him and his chair away from the table, revealing a puddle of clear liquid tinted pink with blood, "W-Wait, I've still got like, th-three more weeks!"

"Twins are almost always premature, Gilbert," Lithuania supplied as the Russian and the other Baltic helped the trembling man up and down the hall. Prussia opened his mouth to ask how and why he even knew that, but it was like Lithuania could read his mind. "I wasn't about to deliver your children without knowing what to expect."

And Prussia thanked God for that a hundred times over.

Russia pulled him into his office, with the large mattress in the corner he had once used for naps. He stripped it of its sheets, and Estonia ran off to get pillows, leaving the pregnant albino with the Lithuanian and the Russian. Belarus and Ukraine stood at the door, both unsure what to do. Ukraine was already crying.

"Natalia-chan, Katyusha-san, don't worry! I've got everything under control," Lithuania chirped. Belarus scoffed. "I'm not worried."

Ukraine was full out bawling.

"Natalia-chan, please take care of Katyusha-san. I'd rather you both not see this."

Lithuania felt the irony on his tongue that he was helping a man deliver children, and telling the women to leave. He smiled, and they left.

"Just try to relax. I know it must be hard," Lithuania shushed the man's restrained noises of pain, "But you've come this far, so don't give up just yet."

"Stop giving me a pep talk," Prussia growled, being laid down gently onto the mattress, "I'm not going to pussy out."

"Sorry," Lithuania squeaked, smile twitching, "I'm just so nervous!"

"Fucking quit it. You better not mess me up," he warned, and to Lithuania, he seemed much calmer than he expected him to be. He had expected panic, because he was the one panicking.

"Yes sir."

Latvia tumbled into the room like a gymnast without grace. Towels were strewn across the floor and covered the small shaking boy. "I-I-I-I-I-!"

"Don't apologize," Prussia barked, making the boy straighten to attention. "Just help, okay?"

And Latvia did, gulping down his terror and gathering up the towels again, shuffling quickly to his side. He turned to Lithuania with surprisingly dry eyes. "W-What else can I get you?"

"A basin of boiling water, and one of cold. Did you bring the washcloths too?" Latvia nodded. "Scissors, then. Do you need anything, Gilbert?"

"I need these things out of me."

"On the double."

Latvia ran from the room, only to collide with Estonia, sending the pillows flying every which way. Prussia threw his head back into the mattress and groaned.

"What the fuck you guys," he laughed softly, "Am I the only one not freaking out?"

"You should be."

His eyes lifted to meet the Russian's, and only then realized that large gloved hands were squeezing his. Purple eyes stared into him with concern, his usually smiling mouth tight-lipped. Prussia scoffed.

"No way. The last thing I need to be right now is scared." He flinched violently, his hips jerking. "I gotta fight, ya know?"

Russia said nothing for a long time, ignoring the ruckus of Estonia and Latvia running about them, getting Lithuania the supplies and stuffing pillows around and under Prussia and constantly asking if he was comfortable. But he eventually nodded and closed his eyes. "...Da. I know."

"Good," Prussia muttered, his hand gripping Russia's as tightly as his bones and muscles would allow, "You might not get...This hand back."

"Da, it is fine. Think of it as a gift."

Prussia chuckled, but it suddenly disappeared in favor of a strong cry, louder than any bloodcurdling scream Russia had ever heard. Everyone in the room jumped, watching Prussia roll slightly and clutch his enormous belly, mouth open wide, face red with pain and frustration.

Lithuania was the first to recover, his hands shaking and flailing a little in panic. "O-Okay! U-Uh, I th-think Prussia would like it better if it were only Russia and me. If I need you two, I'll call you, o-okay?"

The shortest and tallest Baltic nations bolted out of the room as fast as they could, and Lithuania sighed unsteadily. "Can you help me undress him, Russia-san?"

Russia could only nod and will Prussia to take hold of a pillow instead of his hand for only a moment, which was much harder than he thought it'd be. He looked to Lithuania in defeat. "Alright, fine, leave the shirt on."

Lithuania threw a sheet over the moaning man, giving him a bit of decency, and gently picked up his legs to spread them. If Prussia had been even a little coherent and typical, he would have made a fit of his privacy and embarrassment. He probably never thought that he'd have Lithuania between his legs for any reason.

He peeked under it and slipped a towel under his hips, hoping the blood wouldn't soak through to the mattress. Not that it mattered right then.

"Alright, it might be a bit longer," Lithuania said softly, barely over the yelling of the albino, "The head hasn't crowned yet."

Russia wasn't sure what that meant, and made it known with his eyes to Lithuania, who only smiled weakly. "I don't see the baby yet."

Russia frowned, looking down to the mess of a man clutching his hand for dear life. "How long, do you think?"

"It could be minutes, hours."

"Days?"

Lithuania frowned, and didn't answer. "...Twins are a little complicated..."

So they waited. It was agonizing for everyone in that house, listening to the nearly constant scream of the albino in labor. Latvia had put a pillow over his ears and cried himself to sleep, while even the Internet couldn't distract Estonia. Belarus had taken Ukraine out for a walk so she wouldn't have a panic-attack. And it was hours, hours of Lithuania watching, waiting, listening, and hours of Russia calming, soothing, and worrying. Lithuania occasionally reheated the water and changed the towels.

This really had been a punishment, Russia mused humorlessly. When he'd forced the Prussian nation to take his seed, create his children, he hadn't regretted the torture, because he was a cruel man, he was still a cruel, cold man. But now, seeing the man cry and shriek and thrash about in blood and goo, he felt just a little sympathetic.

He kissed the pale hand of his captive as it clutched his and threatened to tear the leather of his gloves with his nails. His bones shifted under his thin skin, white and red with tension. "It'll be over soon, da?"

Prussia couldn't hear him over his own screams.

It was when Lithuania changed the towel for the second time, and peered under the sheet, that Lithuania tensed. Russia watched his hands begin to shake again. "Toris?"

"It's crowned," he whispered, pulling the sheet back a little and his hands disappeared beneath them. Russia jerked his head back to Prussia as his screams increased in volume; a feat that Russia wasn't sure was possible. He felt his hand crack under the pressure Prussia was exerting on it

"P-Push, Gilbert."

"F-Fuck!" finally he voiced himself beyond just incoherent shouting, "Fuck, I already am!"

Prussia threw his head back into the pillows and let out a yell. His legs trembled and his stomach was so tense he thought it was going to explode. He kept pushing and pushing, and finally, the pressure decreased only slightly, and he felt his numb body shift, and he felt a little empty: half empty.

He expected crying. Because that's the first thing one hears when a baby is born, and the woman can finally let go and sigh in relief because she knows she doesn't have to push anymore, and her pain is downhill, because she can hear that it is outside instead of inside.

But there was no crying.

Prussia waited.

Okay, so maybe it was delayed. Leave it to Russia's kids to be slow. But both the Russian and Lithuania were silent, and he willed himself to stop breathing just so he could hear his baby be alive.

"...He's not breathing."

Prussia wished tenfold that he could give up his breath right then.

Prussia was so distracted and horrified, he didn't realize Russia had left his side as quickly as a summer breeze. His hands searched desperately for something to hold, something to keep him from going crazy, but all he found were pillows, unrelenting pillows.

He couldn't lift his head to see why the other two were so quiet. It wasn't as if he wanted to either. He didn't want to see that floppy little body in Lithuania's hands, face frozen in death, and a life stolen from it before it could even properly live it.

Prussia finally let himself cry.

Lithuania watched as Russia took the limp baby from his hands, his eyes determined as they turned onto him and nodded to the fleshy cord attached at its belly. Lithuania quickly cut it away, watching the blood surge out of it. He was frozen to his spot as he stared at the unwavering movement of the strange Russian giant, dipping a washcloth in the warmed water and running it across the front of the baby's body.

His head dipped forward, and Lithuania watched Russia give the kiss of life to the little thing.

He lifted his head and spit blood onto his office floor, glancing at Lithuania with dark purple eyes full of a seriousness that Lithuania hadn't seen in a long time. He dipped his head again, cradling the child in his arms despite the blood and birth liquid dressing the front of his uniform, and breathed into it.

He felt tears wet his face when he saw little pudgy arms twitch, and turn, and flail, and when Russia lifted his mouth away, blood spotting his cheeks as they had once for completely different reasons, loud angry sobs filtered into the dead air, and he felt himself sob in his own quiet manner.

"Do not forget," Russia's booming voice reminded, "that there are two."

His eyes were deeper than Lithuania had ever known them to be, and were blurry in his tearful vision. He nodded, still taken with the shock of it all, and slowly began to replace Prussia's towel.

Russia returned to Prussia, who'd hidden his face in a pillow. He saw the trembling of the albino's frame, heard the weak noises from beneath cotton, and barely had the will to take him from his shelter. "Gilbert."

He slowly took hold of a corner of the pillow and pulled it away from his face. He was immediately met with red, red eyes soaked in tears that were of horror, of relief, of pain, of anything he could think that he could be feeling right then.

His mouth moved like that of a drowning fish, opening and closing and opening again in hopes that he could breathe again, and finding no solace. His shaky hands grabbed onto the front of his coat, blood oozing onto his fingers and staining the pillows beneath.

"I was so scared," he breathed, gasping violently for anything to save his lungs. Russia took a nearby towel and wrapped the screaming infant in it before gently sliding it into Prussia's arms. Prussia looked as if he wasn't sure what to do with it for a moment, because he had had Germany in his arms just like this once, but never so fragile, never so young. He'd never had a baby in these arms, the arms of a destructive and power-hungry nation that no longer existed. He pressed its gory head to his lips, regardless of the bloody taste or the smell of death that could have been its permanent smell, if it hadn't been for its father.

Russia watched silently as Prussia grasped the bundle sweetly, lovingly, as tears continued to roll down his white face.

"There's a good chance," Lithuania chimed in after he rubbed his forearm across his eyes to rid it of tears, "that the second one will be a breech birth."

Again, Russia wasn't sure what that meant, but all playfulness and joy had left him with the latest scare, and he stared at Lithuania until he explained. "It'll be born feet first."

Russia frowned. This was much more complicated than he thought it would be. Lithuania's hands disappeared under the sheets again, and Russia was graced with a squelching wet noise, and a surprised and pained cry from the Prussian. "Yes, it's a breech."

Russia stared intensely at Lithuania, who only glanced back with a sigh.

"This one will be fine, I promise."

Russia was unmoving, but at least he nodded in understanding.

"Gilbert," Lithuania began slowly, "This is probably going to hurt a little, but I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle. Russia-san, make sure he doesn't squeeze the baby too hard."

Russia was there in just a second, gently removing the first born from Prussia's trembling arms. Prussia grasped for it in defense, but Russia only held out the hand not holding the baby. "Push, Little One."

Prussia grabbed onto Russia's hand quickly and squeezed, screaming out his frustration. His insides twisted again, but not as painfully as before. The firstborn had paved the way for the second, and Lithuania slowly pulled the baby out of him, gently. With each push, it came further into the world, until the long moment came to an end with the sound of raspy weak coughing, followed by the first wails of a newborn.

Prussia lolled his head to the side, promptly passing out. His hand was limp in Russia's, no longer trembling and pained, but relaxed and exhausted. He carefully nestled the firstborn into the crook of Prussia's arm and assisted Lithuania with the second.

"Russia-san..." Lithuania sighed out, letting Russia take the baby from him after the cord was cut, and watched him run a washcloth over his other son's squirming fleshy body, ridding it of most of the blood. A proper bath would come after Prussia was taken care of.

"Thank you, Toris."

Lithuania felt himself be pulled into the Russian's one-armed embrace. They were both so very tired, so very calmed, and Lithuania slid his arms around the other's scarf-clad neck and finally had time to breathe. "It was nothing."

They stayed that way for a long moment, the babies crying as hard as they could, but it felt like silence to them. Lithuania drew back, running a newly cleaned hand across Russia's forehead to move the hair from his eyes. "Do not be careless. You're a father now."

Russia nodded curtly, and pressed his head down to the brunette's shoulder, taking another moment to pull himself together. "Da."

Prussia was soon cleaned with fresh washcloths, and towels were replaced for the last time. It would be too dangerous to move him in his weakened and unconscious state, so they only fluffed up his pillows and layered blankets over him. Russia couldn't bear to leave him be, and after bathing the equally exhausted twins, he nestled them between Prussia and himself, making sure Prussia wouldn't roll over in the night. He sighed as quietly as he could, watching the albino's white hair flip with the air blown at him, watching how his mouth and eyes twitched in dream, and wished he could also be so peaceful and unaffected.

But he had work to attend to.

Not now, he told himself, letting his eyes close and his breath even out naturally. His hand rested softly over the slowly heaving front of one of his sons, feeling his lungs fill with life time and time again.

Maybe in the morning.

---

No notes, because I am bloody tired. Oh god.

Please review. I PROMISE I WILL UPDATE FASTER THAN I DID THIS TIME. I SWEAR

Ugh. My life.


	5. All in All

Alright guys. Again, I can't apologize enough. I am super sorry, and all I can say is that becoming an adult is HARD and I've come upon a lot of hardship lately.

I'm getting an apartment with my boyfriend and my other friend, I've got 3 different cosplays in the next few months, I'm in charge of a fashion show in late March, and I've been working on scholarships.

Sorry.

So I decided to give you this half chapter, seeing as you've all been waiting anxiously and I'm SO SORRYYYY. I was hoping I'd get to finish it tonight, but I know that's impossible. I've got so much more to goooo.

I'm hoping to post the second half of this sometime in the next week. If I don't, please berate me.

I am a terrible fanfic writer arrrgh. I should give myself deadlines.

Sorry. Here you are, lovelies~

SHIT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN.

---

He thought, he dreamed, he wouldn't wake to another empty bed. His whole life had been one lonely morning after another, and for the longest time, he thought that was okay. And after his "punishment" had been the only time he'd ever had his bed filled with another beside himself, and it was a glorious feeling, even if the circumstances weren't what he expected. But it was still so wonderful, slowly being pulled from slumber and into the unusual awareness, a warm and loving awareness, that there was someone beside you, naked as the day they were born, and if you were lucky, they'd wake up to your face too, and smile, because it was the start of a new day, a new day with you.

But dreams seldom became realities, and his was no exception.

Dragged from his sleep by the cold, he opened his eyes slowly and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling of Russia's office. He had passed out...

He shot up and looked down around him. He shuffled this pillows and blankets like mad, trying to find his new children, but they were nowhere, and he felt his heart stop and his lungs give up and his skin tremble. It hadn't been enough having one of them almost die, but God had to wake him to nothing as well? He felt his eyes burn with sorrow.

"Calm down."

Prussia jerked his head over to the voice so fast, his neck hurt.

The giant blonde stared at him through narrow purple eyes, reclining in his office chair but feet from the albino. In his lap were two fleshy bundles sprawled out on each leg, still red from birth, faces scrunched in sleep. Russia's gloved hands soothed over each one's backs slowly, soothingly, sweetly, and he loomed over them like a warm shadow.

Prussia stared up at him with tight lips. "Fuck, you didn't have to scare me like that."

"It makes you aware," he responded, "It makes your senses acute, da?"

Prussia was silent as he watched Russia pet them lovingly, their little bodies stirring at the contact, voicing themselves with little whines, let it be of dislike or otherwise. Prussia moved to scoot toward him, but found his legs weak, his hips on fire. He gasped loudly and gripped the pillow for recovery.

"Do not be rash," he whispered, listening to the whimpers of his sons and his captive lover, "You are raw."

"Give them to me," he snapped, the throbs of pain making him irritable and hot-tempered. He reached out his arms, noting how they still shook with God knew what, and how Russia noticed too.

He looked pitiful.

"Come now, aren't you supposed to be glowing? New mothers do that, da? Don't be so upset."

"Don't you dare fuck with me right now," he growled, his volume threatening to rise. His arms thrust out at Russia, and his eyes challenged Russia to do anything besides comply with his demand. The Russian smiled innocently, yet his eyes remained drained of emotion, hard like the cement encasing him to East Germany.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered softly, curling one of the boys closer to himself. It complained delicately to its father, and Prussia had never felt so angry.

"Why won't you give them to me?"

"Because they are mine."

Prussia wasn't sure whether to be furious, surprised, or horrified. In the end, it was a combination of all three. "What the fuck do you mean _yours_? I gave birth to them, you fucking Communist! They came from _me_, and they're fucking_ mine_!"

The whines coming from the twins escalated quickly into upset screams at the sound of Prussia's unfamiliar and loud voice. Russia scooped them into his arms and cooed down at them sweetly, making Prussia grit his teeth and clench his fists.

"Da, my little ones, mama is loud. Don't cry, shhh, papa is here."

"Give them to me _now_!" he yelled, voice trembling just as his arms were.

Had everything before this been for naught? His warming up to Russia, the Russian's love and affection; had it all been nothing but a method to soothe Prussia into believing he actually...?

"You are too upset to hold them, Little One," he said to the ceiling as he reclined further into his chair, letting his sons lay flat on his chest, "You might squeeze them too hard."

"Why are you doing this?" he managed to get out through the tightening in his throat, the wheezing of his lungs. The sound of crying had yet to dull, and every little noise coming from his sons was making him want to drop his stupid pride and cry.

"I am feeling cruel today," he answered.

"Well fucking quit it," he squeaked, feeling himself succumb just a little. Russia rocked on his heels, making the chair tip back and forth gently, settling the boys back into sleep.

"I am the master," was all he needed to hear before Prussia let tears fall from his wet burning eyes. His arms drew down to fall limp on his legs, which were covered in new blood from his shifting in the sheets. "And you are the guest."

Russia looked down with dulled eyes to the openly weeping Prussian, and felt his heart pulse. Was he being too cruel? Yes. Of course he was. But when he looked at the tiny red faces of his new sons...

_It wasn't his rocking chair, but he'd practically made it his. He'd spend all night in that chair, rocking his heels back and forth, tilting his body in only two directions. The baby seemed to love it._

"_Be careful, Ivan. He might get dizzy!" Alexandra had warned him time and time again. But Russia would smile and continue his tempo._

"_My beautiful Alexandra, you worry too much. He is a boy, and he loves adventure!"_

_The baby squealed and grabbed for his low-hanging scarf, wrapping pudgy fingers around the fabric and flinging it lightly about. His eyes were nearly as wide and innocent as Russia's, looking about at the wonder of such a giant man, while the giant wondered about the sweet babe in his arms._

"_Oh, do not be silly with me," she sighed in resignation, "He's so weak, Ivan."_

_Russia didn't miss the hopelessness in her voice, and watched her press her frail hands to her eyes and whimper. He stopped rocking._

"_My Empress," he had whispered, holding his heir to his warm chest. He felt the boy curl up and grasp at his clothes. "Do not lose faith. Please, do not give up."_

"_No, I know I can't," she answered stiffly as she removed her hands to let her tears be visible, "But the doctors have told me that he won't live past eight."_

_Russia looked down at the babe chewing on the corner of his scarf, eyes drifting close and breath evening out. "He is a beautiful thing you and Sir Nicholas have created. I think... It is best if we do not dwell on such sad things. We should try to make his life wonderful, no matter how long it is, da?"_

_Alexandra embraced the seated Russian around his head of ashy blonde hair, pressing her wet cheek to the crown of it and cried. Alexei had yet to stir, but Russia laid his head back into Alexandra's body and smiled, replying:_

"He's as much my son as he is yours."

Russia blinked down at the angry Prussian. He had yet to stop shaking and crying.

"What was that, Little One?"

"I said: they're as much my sons as they are yours!"

"I thought you didn't want them." Playing that card was weak of him, and not well planned, but he was busy reminiscing and being stuck in the past. But it worked all the same, as he watched the Prussian become confused and wring his hands in the pillows surrounding him.

Russia wasn't about to admit that he looked like an angel. Not then.

It was obvious Prussia was having trouble thinking of words to refute him. "...Wh...What? B-But...But you...! And I-"

"Yes, Little One, you and I. We made these. But I wanted them, and you didn't, so you threatened to kill them, da? Who knows when you'll threaten them again?"

Prussia realized he had lost the fight.

In the face of his wounded lover, he saw the last mother of Russia. He remembered just how many times she had looked death in the face with a glare that would make any bear turn tail and run. She had been hysterical, anxious, but brave.

And that was Prussia.

"You look like Alix, when you weep like that, for your Baby."

"What the fuck are you spouting now?" he spat, not even trying to quell the red in his cheeks or the blurry tears in his eyes. "You sick fuck."

"_Do you think I'm ready for the army?"_

_Russia looked down at the teenage boy with the handsome face that women fell to bits over. He was as dashing as his father, and maybe even more so, with dimpled cheeks and raw blue eyes that shined like polished glass. "Da."_

"_Oh, Mr. Ivan, I'm so excited. Mama doesn't want me to go at all, though."_

"_Mama is worried for you," he answered, drumming his fingers on the boy's thin shoulders carefully, so carefully, he could barely feel a body under his fingertips. "You know how dangerous it is for you."_

"_But I'm not even going to battle!" he cried, eyes glistening in determination in ways that Russia was sure he'd seen before in the eyes of the very woman who married this boy's father, bore him four of the prettiest girls in all of Russia, and gave birth to the very boy standing before him. "I will be beside father, and I am to show the world that I am strong enough!"_

_Russia felt his heart burst. No, no, this boy was not strong. He was weak, and he was diseased, and he was not fit to be heir._

_He was not meant to be ruler of Russia._

_He could feel it in his blood. The Romanov dynasty would end with Alexei, just as the prophecies had told him. But this was the boy he had helped raise, the one he'd been praying for every day and night. When Anastasia was born, at first, he had been as disappointed as Nicholas had been. She was the fourth girl. Would he not be given an heir? Would Russia be handed over to those damn Germans next in line? Over time, yes, he realized that his little girl was his, all his, and by far his favorite for her liveliness he had only hoped would be in a boy. She certainly had the personality for it._

_But then came the day that Alexei was born, and the moment he set eyes on that little fleshy thing, he felt nothing but relief flow into him like God had taken hold of him and embraced him in His great arms and told him all his prayers had been received and answered. All of Russia, all of his country, cried out into the night in excitement, in liberation, in absolute and complete joy. And so had he. All of his army had been given the title of Alexei's godfather, every man in his fleets, especially his troops in Japan. They were all a part of Alexei._

_Though, almost as soon as the cheers and parties ended, his family knew something was wrong. This baby was wrong, wrong, wrong, because his mother had given him her blood, her imperfect blood, the never-ending blood._

"_Baby," he whispered, kneeling down even though he was shorter than the young man at that position. His hand tugged on the boy's own frail one, and stared deep into his shining blue eyes and he wanted everything to be okay, but it never would be, as hard as he prayed this time, God only gave him one chance and one chance alone. "Baby, you are a silly boy."_

_Alexei pursed his lip and had he been younger, Russia was sure he would have started crying and throwing a tantrum. He had always been the most spoilt. But now he was a young man, and a young man that was no longer in denial of his condition, his closeness to death, but accepting of his fate, should it come prematurely. "Mr. Ivan, you mock me."_

"_Nyet, Baby." Russia took that moment to pull Alexei to him and press his head gently into the curve of his chest. He listened to the heart beating so quickly, too quickly for it to be healthy, and sighed. "I am just as worried as mama is."_

_Alexei's thin arms reached around Russia's head and embraced it sweetly, barely there, like kisses from flowers in the wind, and he nodded. "I am sorry I can never rule for you, because you are a kind man. I love you, Mr. Ivan."_

_Russia tried not to cry, but it was becoming hard not to._

Russia stared down at Prussia again, who was trying to stifle his low sobs by ducking his head against his chest. He couldn't curl up, not with the way his legs shivered so awfully, and the blood stained the sheets quickly. "Alix was my last empress. Baby was my last heir."

Prussia's lips turned down into an angry scowl. "Is that why you're doing this? Because you can't fucking handle real living things?"

"Definitely," Russia answered, turning his eyes down to the real living things in his very lap. "I am not sure what to do. It's been too long, you know, since I loved real living things. I am not sure what to do at all."

Prussia watched as Russia brushed his gloved hands down his sons flesh, and they squirmed and moaned. He pursed his lip, tried to look away because at that moment he fucking hated that beast, that monster, but his children were in its lair and he had to save them. Though, he found he couldn't exactly blame the Russian for being confused. He was heartless at the worst of times. "Take your fucking gloves off."

"Sorry?"

"Your gloves are too rough," he gulped down the heart in his throat. "Take your stupid fucking gloves off."

"You're the expert," he murmured in all seriousness, and it made Prussia's muscles tense, but he took a breath and calmed down. His tears felt crusty on his cheeks as he scrubbed them off. He watched Russia remove his brown leather gloves slowly, revealing scarred calloused hands and long bony fingers, and proceeded to touch their new flabby skin.

They immediately began to cry.

"What am I doing wrong?" he asked innocently, a hint of panic in those deep purple eyes that were suddenly so vivid to Prussia, so real. His voice was so monotone, so dull and dead and Prussia hated it, just as he hated that gloomy look Russia had given him time and time again during his god-awful pregnancy, whether he threatened himself or refused to eat beets or rejected the Russian's offerings of massages.

"Your hands are cold. They always are."

Russia looked down at his hands as if he wanted to destroy them, destroy them with the pain in his eyes. He grimaced, his lips shaking, and Prussia was sure he had finally lost to insanity. And he was frightened for Russia's judgment.

"Please," Prussia gave in again, rolling his ankles in the stiff sheets as he tried to shift closer, "Please, just let me touch them. I'm sorry for what I did, what I said, I don't fucking care, I'm sorry, just let me touch them." Let me save them.

Russia glanced over to Prussia, then to the screaming babies in his lap, then back to his hands, as if he were deciding which had the highest priority.

"Ivan."

It was only a moment for Russia to scoop up his sons and crawl on his knees over to the absolutely thankful and relieved mother, his hands shaking with anticipation at the thought of holding his children for the first time.

"I want to touch them too."

Prussia nodded unevenly and grabbed for Russia's hands as soon as he deposited the twins onto both their laps, their kneecaps pressed against each other's. Prussia could only close his eyes and clasp the freezing hands to his cheeks, red with frustration and still wet with the tears that came with it. He felt the wiggling in his lap, the loud crying filling his ears, and he just sat there and experienced the feeling of a little body, his little baby's body, squirming and moving because it was _alive, holy fuck, he's alive, they're alive_.

"Do you know what it means?"

"What?" he asked, daring to open his aching eyes to the man before him. His purple eyes stared right back, unblinking, unflinching, just looking.

"My name. Do you know what it means?"

"No, I don't exactly pride myself in Russian."

"God has mercy."

Prussia shut his mouth and looked down to his twins, quickly growing tired of being ignored and putting their little lungs to work. "Do you think that is true?"

"I'm not a man of God anymore," he whispered above the cries of the twins, and squeezed the hands tight to his face.

"Our babies are cold."

Prussia looked to him with inquiry, as if he let go of those hands he put so firmly to his face, Russia would take his children away again. But Russia removed his large hands of his own accord, slowly so not to startle Prussia, and brought them back to the son in his lap. "You may touch now, da?"

Prussia didn't need to be told twice.

As carefully as he could with his shaky weak hands, he pressed a gentle palm to the back of its head and one to its clothed bottom, and pulled him to his chest with all the love and emotion he'd had swelling in his chest since he woke to the sight of them so far from him, a place they shouldn't ever be. Prussia brought the boy's head up to his shoulder, pressing his lips to the crown of its little head, willing away the slowly dulling sobs festering in not only his son's throat, but his own.

"Shh, shh," he murmured into its thin pale-colored hair, basking in the feel of a warm little boy in his arms, the same boy who had been growing inside him for 8 or so months, the same boy that had shared that space with another little boy of the same size, weight and appearance. And he had never felt anything so wonderful.

"Humans usually name their children after parents, da?"

Prussia nodded absently, rocking back and forth lightly in the bloodstained sheets, cooing and breathing too many sighs of relief and happiness for his usual prideful liking. "Yeah."

"We have no parents."

Prussia was so mellow, in those warm sheets with that warm feeling steaming in his insides and that warm baby in his arms. But he looked Russia over thoughtfully, before closing his eyes again and enjoying his moment of peace. "Alexei."

They were silent for a lengthy amount of time, and all that could be heard were the tiny moans from the pacified children. The boy in Russia's arms had fallen asleep long ago.

"I don't know if I can do that, Little One," Russia admitted softly, eyes darting and unfocused. "I can't."

Russia didn't say anything beyond that, and kept his eyes glued to the bed. Prussia wanted silence, but not that way, not with that awkward and miserable feel in the air. "Does he look like an Alexei?"

Russia didn't want to look up at that beautiful baby and see his Baby anymore. He wouldn't know what he'd do.

"At least they aren't girls. Thank God."

Prussia's attempt at familiarity and humor only resulted in a thicker atmosphere. The children were impervious, of course, but Prussia felt like crawling into a hole in the snow.

"...Name them, then," he offered, a little annoyed at Russia's supposedly childish behavior. "I doubt you'd want your sons to have dirty Dutch names."

"...All I can think of are my Emperors. And they hurt me and my people," he whispered, eyes still downcast, "They were always hurting me."

Prussia didn't look away from the huge man curling like a long weed in the breeze, shadowing his son with a silk scarf and head of silvery wheat hair. "This baby could never hurt me. Never."

"...Alexei never hurt you."

Russia finally looked to him, long pale locks of hair shading his brightly colored eyes that stared deep into his own and read his very thoughts. "How would you know, Little One?"

"Oh shut the fuck up," Prussia sighed, giving up on trying to appease the mental giant. "He was just a boy."

"My boy."

Prussia's eye twitched. "And these ones aren't?"

"You cannot understand."

"Fine," he huffed, baring his teeth like a beast. He pressed his son to his chest carefully, like he would never ever let go. "What do you want me to do?"

Russia gave him a look that was drowned in confusion, sadness, and a loss of hope, as if he didn't even care what his sons were named. Did this really tear him up that badly? Prussia couldn't fathom what it all meant to the Russian to hold those baby boys in his arms and call himself their father, but it couldn't be much different from himself.

"Do you remember," he started slowly, cold nostalgia tinted his words, "when you told me that your definition of a father was better than mine?"

Russia wasn't about to deny it, so he gave a curt little nod. Prussia's eyes were like red hot peppers, burning him to the pit of his stomach. "So why are you acting like a child when you are by far the better parent?"

Prussia was sure that above all the things he hated in this world, like that goddamn wall and Cold Wars and beets, he hated silence the absolute most. It might have been his hatred for loneliness, his insecurity and social attitude, but whatever the case, he hated it and Russia was never there to save him from it, but rather to prolong that empty dirty feeling in his guts. And it continued for what felt like hours until Russia's head twitched up just slightly, yet Prussia still couldn't see his eyes, his face, and it bothered him so very badly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Prussia opened his mouth to retaliate, maybe berate him some more, but Russia sat up straight, slipping his hands under the boy in his lap and depositing him into Prussia's before taking his leave. His footsteps were hard and loud, the click of the lock grating, and finally, the silence killed him.

Russia had graced him with two babies to love forever, but he'd never felt lonelier in his life.

---

"What are you doing to him?"

"I don't answer to you," he replied, his pace getting steadily quicker. Lithuania bounded after him down the chilly streets of Berlin, arms full of brown paper bags.

"Don't walk away from me!"

"Don't give me orders."

An innocent trip to the grocery had resulted in a clash between the two when Lithuania finally couldn't keep his opinion to himself and called the Russian out. Russia didn't take it well.

"Do you realize what you've done to him?" he shouted, his hot angry breath hissing into the frigid air and creating thin white puffs. "You've taken everything from him!"

"I have given him everything," Russia corrected, long stride making Lithuania shuffle to keep up.

"You fucking listen to me!"

Russia's step faltered, and next thing he knew he was face-full of angry Lithuanian. The man standing in his way glared at him with a strength he hadn't seen since the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. His eyes cut him to pieces with knives dipped in poison.

"I've seen the way you look at those babies. Don't lie to me! You did this, and you're going to deal with it!"

"I don't know what-"

"No!" he cried. If Russia had been half the man he usually was, Lithuania would be suffering from a concussion and extreme blood loss for talking to him that way. But his heart was heavy, and his body dried like dirt cracked in the desert. He wasn't going to fight this man. Lithuania shook his head angrily. "No, stop it! I'm tired of you acting like a big man! You're just as scared as he is! You're a father now, and you need to suck it up!"

Talking so straightly to Russia was putting him on edge, as his eyes became blurry with frightened tears. His arms trembled with the weight of the bags, and the weight of his fear. But he didn't even care if Russia slammed that goddamn lead pipe into his temple anymore. "You have children now! Sons! You have two beautiful sons, and you act as if they don't exist!"

Russia kept his mouth shut as he let Lithuania vent.

"It hurts to think how Gilbert might be feeling," he whispered, finally feeling the frightened angry tears drip down his face. "You used him."

"You're wrong."

Russia wasn't sure what was wrong with him these days. He hadn't really thought of the consequences of pregnancy, as strange as that sounded in his head. He knew he'd have children, but he didn't think he wouldn't be able to look at them without reminding himself that he'd had children like that once, and he'd lost them all. And it had all been his fault.

"You're wrong," he repeated quietly, as to not upset Lithuania anymore. Lithuania took a shrill breath and sniffed back more tears, looking up at him with angry questioning.

"Am I?"

"I didn't use him. I didn't."

"You're right," Lithuania sneered, "You made him bear your children, and now you don't want the children either. What did you want then? To torture him? That's not so surprising to me. But this is the sickest you've ever been."

"I don't know what I wanted!"

Hands clawed into his hair and he doubled over like he'd been punched in the gut, which is what it felt like to have those words travel through his ear and to his brain and to his whole body, words that stung like infected cuts and alcohol on wounds. He stared down to the pavement under him, his pale hair dangling over his blurry eyes and he felt his face tense into a grimace and he let out a choking noise not too different from that of a lost baby deer. Russia saw the brown bags Lithuania had been carrying fall to his level of vision with a sad crunch and felt hesitant and shaky hands hover over his back, not sure if they should give his physical support, or to let the beast ride out his pain. Russia wasn't sure which he preferred. "I don't know!"

The world spun. It spun too quickly, and he was nauseous. His throat closed and he gasped for anything to keep him alive, but God was no longer merciful, and he had lost his chance. He heard the pitiful noises coming from his mouth and he wanted to cringe because he was the Soviet Union, for fuck's sake, and nothing could crush him _ever_.

But just the thought of that beautiful man with his two boys welcoming him home was enough for him to fall.

It would never happen, and he knew it. It was only a dream, something he never had either. He only had nightmares: memories. Dreams were for those who deserved them. So dream on, my babies.

"Mr. Ivan?"

_I love you, Mr. Ivan!_

Dream on.

---

Every curve was beautiful. Every roll of skin was adorable and new. His fingers danced over the fragile supple skin, tracing maps of hills and planes. The baby stared up with fascinated purple eyes.

"Look at you," he whispered, poking it in the belly and watching it squirm. It didn't know how to smile yet. "I bet if I smiled at you forever you'd get the hang of it, huh."

He played with its little hands while his identical brother slept against him. Five of his fingers were just big enough to curl around his thumb, itty-bitty fingernails shallow and colorless. "What are you trying to do with those little hands?" as if the baby would answer him.

"How am I supposed to be less lonely when the only sign of life I have doesn't even know how to reply?"

The baby made a gurgling noise, and Prussia never felt the smile leave his face. It was soft, and it was gentle, and he liked it. "Just for you, okay?"

He moved its tiny arms up and down, and it gave small chirping noises with each stretch. His fingers stroked the perfect pudgy skin under his touch, and hummed the same song he had hummed to Germany when he was just a little thing, bigger than this one, yet just as innocent and needy and loving, scared of being alone, scared of silence.

"Like me, right?" he interrupted himself, voicing the thought in his head to the boy, who blinked slowly and wiggled. "Yeah, I know."

Talking to a baby was better than talking to himself, he knew that much.

"I don't know too many lullabies," he admitted softly, nestling the blankets closer to the babies in his lap. "I'm not too good with this mother thing, huh?"

The babies just squirmed to get comfortable.

"Your papa probably doesn't want me speaking to you in German," he murmured, rocking the two back and forth in his lap with the soft lifting of his hips, the swaying of his crossed legs. "But I'm going to sing to you, okay? You'll like it. West did."

"Der Mond ist aufgegangen," he began quietly, his calloused hands finding themselves petting the little pale patches of hair on their heads, "Die gold'nen Sternlein prangen

am Himmel hell und klar." _The moon has risen. The golden stars shine in the sky, brightly and clearly._

He watched the boy that watched him right back let his eyes get heavy, his little hands settle against his brother's back, and sigh.

"Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget." _The woods stand black and silent._

It was harder to get the lyrics out, much less sing them. His babies were beautiful.

"Und aus den Wiesen steiget der weiße Nebel, wunderbar." _And magically, from the meadows the white mist is rising._

They were asleep. His legs hurt from the constant weight and his lack of movement for the past few days, but he couldn't bring himself to move them. So he curled into them even if he knew his back would hurt if he fell asleep like that. But he didn't care. He just needed something to calm down his drumming heart.

"Seht ihr den Mond dort stehen?" _Do you see the moon up there?_

He looked outside the broad windows of the office, but there was no moon for him.

And there never would be.

The squeak of an opening door told him he wasn't alone anymore. He turned his attention to the noise before keeping his head down, brows furrowed. The leathery steps echoed through the room, and he couldn't ignore this man forever.

"Alexei and Nicholas."

Prussia forced himself to look up, and was met with frosty purple eyes, dead as winter trees. He pointed at one boy. "Alexei," and then pointed to the other. "Nicholas."

"Are you fucking with me?" he was angry at the way his voice rasped with emotion. Hell, he was angry at everything. But the Russian blinked slowly, calmly, softly.

"I'm not fucking with you."

Prussia didn't reply, and slowly lowered his head to watch his babies sleep.

"Look at me."

"Why should I?"

"I love you."

The windows were frosted from the night air, and looked as if they could crack and shatter at any moment, at any breath in its direction. Lithuania could be heard bustling about in the kitchen, talking with one of his brothers, or both. The voices were dulled, muffled through the wood and plaster of walls, and it left a humming in Prussia's ears.

"You don't need to say anything," Russia answered for him. He bent forward and pressed his lips to his hair, holding it there to breathe him in. "You don't even have to love me back."

When Russia stepped back, he didn't look at him. But when he left him alone, this time, he felt _warm_.

"Fuck."

He tried to sleep, but he just couldn't. Not with that glimmer of hope so fresh in his head.

---

Der Mond ist aufgegangen = "The Evening Song" is a poem written by Matthias Claudius said to be published in the 1700's. It has become a popular lullaby, despite the poem being entirely based on death.

Ironic.

BUT YOU DIDN'T HEAR THAT FROM ME.

Oh man I will finish this as soon as I can, really. REALLY.

Feel free to be angry with me *hides*


	6. You're Just Another Brick in the Wall

It's spring break for me, so I finally had time to sit down and finish this. It's 12:30 am over here, but who the fuck cares! It's break!

After more than a month, here is the end. And I can not formulate words that can possibly show how sorry I am, because I cannot be excused for this. It shouldn't take me a month to write this, but writers block sunk its claws into my skin and I was eaten alive. I'm sorry isn't good enough.

Here is the finale, 30 pages of my apologies, and I hope this satiates all of your desires for conclusion.

Please don't kill me.

I know you all wanted a happy ending, but that just ain't my style haha.

Anyway, enjoy. and please review, it makes me crazy happy like nothing else in the world.

-STILL TAKING HETALIA FIC REQUESTS COUGHCOUGH-

----------------

"I'm going to visit," he'd told him, the happiness so clear on both sides of the phone, it made the brothers warm and hopeful. "He said yes."

"Bruder," Germany breathed with joy, "I'll finally see you."

"You'll see the twins too. They're fucking gorgeous, West."

Germany only laughed, hearty and strong as ever.

"See you in a bit!"

"If you truly loved me," he had said to Russia, "You would let me see my little brother."

He had remembered the look he'd been given so vividly: star struck, thoughtful, suspicious, it could go on forever. It was all mixed together to give Prussia uncertainty and hope all at the same time. But there was something there that wasn't quite right, wasn't what he was used to.

"There is no doubt about that," he had murmured, looking at his paperwork rather than at the lonely forsaken man before him that he hoped to call his lover. "I love you."

The words were acidic, yet dull, like they didn't belong in his mouth or in the air or in Prussia's ear or even in this world. "Why," he muttered close to himself, "Why all of a sudden."

"All of a sudden?"

Prussia stared at the man signing documents with the neat flick of his thick wrists, his head down and his concentration elsewhere, or so he thought. "You didn't love me before all of this."

"Who's to say I didn't?"

Prussia couldn't prove anything. Russia smiled.

"Gilbert," he whispered silkily with his thick accent, his deep, deep steady voice seizing his attention, "I will give you this gift of mercy. And I won't even follow you."

The way it was said left little to suspect. But Prussia was so used to being weary of this man, the man who took him away in a hundred different ways. "Really?"

"Da. I trust you won't run. You won't will you?"

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. And it scared him.

"...No," he confessed, angry with himself of all people. What was wrong with him?

"Good. Leave when you like. Come back when you like. This is lenience, da?"

Prussia stared down at the man who had finally stared back at him, purple eyes drowned in _something_. Or was it nothing? "Is...Is something the matter?"

Russia smiled as he always did. "Nyet, my Little One. Everything is fine."

His suspicion had yet to stop flicking its flames at his insides, and as he slowly shifted to leave the room, the man behind the desk cleared his throat a little too loudly, and _oh god_, he thought, _don't take this away from me_.

"Little One."

_Let me out!_

"I demand a little payment for my sincerity."

_What else is there to give you? I have nothing left._

But he turned and watched the man, his legs turned to stone and his stomach in his feet, and all he is met with is a beckoning finger and a soft smile. "You look like a little lost rabbit, Gilbert."

He stepped forward, and was horrified that he still did it, one more step, and then another, and more, and he was in front of the man that controlled his everything.

And there was suddenly pain in those purple eyes.

"Why must you look so scared? Why would I hurt you?"

"You," he choked out, and he is realizes he wasn't so sure himself. "You hurt Toris just the other day."

"Ah." Russia frowned a little, leaning back into his chair, having yet to dismiss the albino. "He...stepped beyond his boundaries."

"And you think I won't?"

"I know you won't."

Prussia didn't answer, so he took it as acknowledgement. "I simply wanted a goodbye kiss, Little One. Is that too frightening?"

_What had I been thinking?_

He sighed and leaned forward over the chair, his hands curling over the armrests and gripping tight. Russia smiled and slipped forward too, and they met.

Prussia tried to remember the last time he'd kissed this man. He couldn't, and he was wondering why Russia didn't want them more often. He wasn't a bad kisser, he was sure.

Russia's lips were always cold, perfect for nipping, each touch sending a shiver to his everything, but inside was something quite the opposite. Cold words became what they were from passing his frozen lips, but they had started as infernos, waiting to explode and destroy everything before it.

A tongue passed his teeth, and he nearly dropped himself into the awaiting lap of the man in his mouth. It was hot, and it was deadly, and he was going to pass out if it continued any longer. Russia gave way swiftly, drawing away when he felt Prussia begin to tremble, and smiled like every day was sunshine and his whole life had been beautiful.

"I shall see you soon."

Prussia took a moment to catch his breath, and Russia only leaned back up to steal it again quickly. He was finally allowed out of the office, and when he left on shaky legs and a pounding heart, Russia waited.

He looked to the closed door, then down to the thin page on the top of his desk, describing the riots and terror in his home, and the Germans under his control starving and pleading for help and upon not receiving any, throwing themselves to the government, and he could only take so much.

Gripping the sides of the desk, he tossed it to the side like it was nothing, pages scattering angrily with airborne flutters and wood scraping against the floor and cracking on impact and the sound of splintering sprung into the air like a tree falling in the forest. The wall broke open a bit, a little crater in the plaster and wood and paint and it flew dust into the air like a terrifying and sudden mist of destruction.

But still, that little paper was there above all the carnage, a little ripped, a little crumpled, but still there, and nothing was going to change what it said: Unless he had anything to do with it.

"I'll make you stay," he whispered to the settling damage. "I will make you happy. And you'll want me. I know you will."

The report lay there, and he waited for it to leave, but it didn't.

It was there to stay.

---

Prussia didn't feel as great as he had when he'd talked to his brother on the phone. The second his brother's voice left him, he felt his heart grow heavy and his lips draw down into a frown. He was supposed to be happy, going to see his little brother after so long. How long had it been? Time was such a strange issue when you lived forever.

Or so he had thought.

He looked down at the babies wiggling in their cribs, making loud squealing noises and blinking their big purple eyes up at him and smiling, because it's what he'd taught them.

"Hey, babies."

They rolled about in their soft pastel blues and greens, and reached out with tiny hands toward the person they'd always known and always loved. Prussia leaned down and scooped them both against his breast, cooing soft little things into their little fleshy ears and loving them as no one else in the world possibly could.

"We're going on a trip! How does that sound?"

He was met with gurgling and grunted syllables: Progress.

"Gilbert, let me help you! You can't do all that yourself!"

Prussia ignored the fussy man behind him, focusing on holding one squirming toddler in his lap while he buttoned up the other's jacket. "Don't worry, I got it."

Lithuania sighed and watched as the boy tumbled out of Prussia's lap and proceeded to crawl away, making his hands and knees dirty. The boy bounced with each shift of his little pudgy legs across the floor, hesitating in a fashion similar to that of chameleons.

"Gilbert," Lithuania chuckled softly, finally stepping in and picking up the adventurous baby before he could hurt himself on table edges or electric sockets in the wall. His eyes met with dangerous red ones, who watched the baby squirm in his arms and whine. The other twin was growing impatient, and wiggled about in his mother's grip. Lithuania smiled softly. "Which one is this?"

Prussia didn't need to think about it. But he paused anyway. "...Alexei."

"He's feisty."

Prussia didn't say anything to that, and returned to dressing the tiresome Nicholas. Lithuania sat beside him and picked up the remaining clothes, twisting the fussy boy in his arms around into different positions to slip his arms into sleeves and his kicking legs into pants. They sat in silence, the hissy-fits and the rustling of fabric making the atmosphere heavy as lead.

"...I don't know why he wanted them if he's just going to ignore them."

Lithuania frowned, bouncing Alexei up and down on his crossed legs. "I don't think it's like that. He...Let him keep his distance for now, okay? He must be scared."

"Scared of what?" came out more vehemently than Prussia would have liked.

"Scared of them dying," came out too easily. "Scared of them being lost."

"That's not going to happen."

Lithuania said nothing, and if that hadn't left a deafening silence, nothing else could. The boys were dressed, and Prussia gathered together their things before setting off. Lithuania remained sitting on the floor, but he turned to his retreating back. "He's so frightened, Gilbert. You can't understand."

"I've been hearing that a lot," Prussia sneered, glancing over his shoulder with smoldering red eyes. "But no one is willing to _let_ me understand."

Prussia left for the wall, and Lithuania still sat there, his mouth turned downward as he counted the threads in the carpet.

---

"Boss's orders," he informed the guardsmen. As if they could shoot a nation with _children_, nonetheless. They nodded their heads and helped him up and down the guard ladder, taking special care to barely touch the twins, knowing just how insanely delicate and important they were to keeping their jobs and more importantly, their _lives_.

The other side was the Germany he had never known. He hadn't seen it in 20 years.

His brother stood a few yards from where he had dropped to the other side, the little Italian boy in tow. He smiled at him with sincerity unmatched, and Prussia wanted to take him into his arms right then, but he had boys now.

"Gilbert! Gilbert, oh, Gilbert!"

Italy ran over quickly, as quickly as he had when the British had been on his heels back in the day. His arms were flung open wide, like children did to show just how big something was, or to show how much they loved their parents. And then he stopped. And he stared.

It was quiet, but Berlin bustled in the background, but in that long dirt clearing between the city and the wall, there was no one but them.

"Gilbert," he whispered, something he had thought the Italian was never capable of doing. His arms lowered, and he watched them draw up to his chest, fingers in fists, fingers twitching in curiosity. Italy had the heart of a child, and always would.

"Hey, Italy-chan," Prussia laughed awkwardly, bouncing the boys in his arms softly. They'd grown into toddlers, old enough to understand their surroundings, but not old enough to speak, to think for themselves, to do much of anything besides smiling and watching. They hid their faces in his shirt. "Ah," he started again, gesturing to the boy at his left shoulder, "This is Alexei." He turned to the other, who tightened his little hands in his clothes. "And this is Nicholas."

Italy looked as if he were in a terrible dilemma, his hands fidgeting and his legs twitching and his eyes looking everywhere but at the babies. "...What's wrong?"

"Can..." Italy barely mumbled over his own breath. He had looked up to Prussia through burnt sienna hair with large chocolate eyes. "Can I...Hold them?"

Prussia shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Hadn't Germany told him whose kids these were? Hadn't he told him what happened? But apparently he hadn't, and maybe that was for the best, because Italy just wanted so _badly_ to hold those babies, and he could see it on his face, in the anxiety of his trembles.

"Yeah, Italy-chan. Of course you can."

He softly shifted the whining Alexei into Italy's arms, and when he was situated, Nicholas as well. Italy looked on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong?" Prussia asked again, and noticed Germany had gotten closer to them. He still kept his distance, especially at Italy's sudden wet hiccups.

"You..." Italy murmured, and Prussia watched the tears stream down rosy cheeks. "You are so lucky."

He wasn't so sure about that. But Italy pressed his cheek to the top of Nicholas's little blonde head and cooed brokenly. Nicholas didn't seem to mind in the least. The Italian rocked lightly on his heels, and gave his full attention to those boys in his arms.

"So precious."

Prussia watched his brother stand behind Italy and slip his large muscled arms around him delicately, as if the smallest squeeze would break everything, as if Italy and those twins were made of tissue and glass.

He liked the look of it.

_If something happens to me, take care of them, okay?_

"You'd make a great mom, Italy-chan."

Italy shook with hiccupping sobs and stared at Prussia with a love he'd never grow used to. The twins wiggled in the Italian's arms softly, mewling about the noise of the streets, of the lack of an overbearing sadness, of a freedom they had not been born into like they should have.

A thank you was uttered gently into the summer air, and they silently appreciated each other's presences, because they wouldn't know how long it would all last.

Those were changing times.

---

Russia waited.

This game he had gotten very used to. He'd waited for many things in his life, long, long times. Revolutions were not sudden things, of course. And he'd had far too many of those in his life.

He'd taken to Lithuania like a duckling. He'd follow and follow without a thought of his own tumbling about in his disorganized head. Lithuania would be doing laundry, and Russia would sit and watch. He'd watch the way Lithuania worked the machines like he'd never seen them used, and Lithuania must have found it humorous, because he'd smile and giggle at him as if he were a child.

He'd always be a child.

Lithuania would be cooking dinner, and Russia would want to help, despite never having actually cooked anything that wasn't borscht or pirozhki before, just so he could think of something other than what was going on behind that wall.

"Mr. Ivan," Lithuania called softly, handing him a peeled carrot to slice. He took it without a second thought and proceeded to do his duty.

Pent up _rage_, _anxiety_, _worry_. How long would he have to wait? Had he scared Prussia off? Thoughts of love were strange to him, foreign, misunderstood, something he'd probably never completely comprehend. The beating of his heart was irregular, soft, trembling, and it reminded him of the story of Beauty and the Beast. He had no magic rings or mirrors, or roses: he was just a beast.

Belle promised she'd come back to the Beast.

"Where are they, Toris?"

Lithuania watched Russia stare at the mutilated carrot before him, blood that could only be from him dripping down the cutting board. Russia wasn't aware in the least, and looked to Lithuania pleadingly.

"They'll come back, right? They won't leave, right?"

Lithuania frowned deeply, keeping his gaze on the red smearing over moist vegetable, drizzling and mixing with the water to thin. "Why would you think that?"

"Belle didn't come back to the Beast, and he died."

Lithuania slowly held his hand out to Russia's, as if he were trying to help an injured wolf that was crazy with pain and panic. He touched his palm, locating the cut he'd inflicted in his daydreams, because he could no longer dream at night. "The prince came back to life," he replied, maybe to humor the giant.

"Gilbert won't save me."

Lithuania wanted to fight the words dancing on his tongue, and he swallowed them down like medicine, sticky and disgusting. His take on things would make things worse, as always. "Mr. Ivan, come here."

Russia's purple eyes cried out for anything to keep him down to earth, to keep him from going insane with what, Lithuania wasn't sure: loneliness? Worry? Fright?

He tugged him gently to the sink, turning on the tap and letting the water swish over his bloodied hand, showing the long cut that ran across the back of his hand. Lithuania could only wonder what Russia would have done if he had been in a normal mental state, not weighed down with so many doubts and fears. He toweled it carefully as to not wake the monster within the Russian, and shifted through his lower cabinets for some bandages. Russia watched him intently.

"Tor-"

"Shh," he answered, turning back to the giant and taking care of his cut like a mother with a band-aid. Russia did not wince, but trembled.

"Remember when you were mine?"

Lithuania froze. That had been so long ago, yet the memories still burned like a wildfire unstoppable. They hadn't been good memories, but at the least he had learned patience, tolerance, consideration, things he hadn't known back in his younger years, his years as the Duchy of Lithuania, his years with Poland. He had been young and stupid.

Russia had taught him to be submissive, and maybe it was for the best: you couldn't start a war with compliance. And that was the last thing he had wanted. But Russia's methods were cruel, disgusting, terrible, but he'd soon lose his interest in him anyway, like a month-old toy in the hands of a child.

He'd taken interest in the German.

"Yes," Lithuania whispered over the low simmering of a dinner nearly forgotten on the stove. His hands were still steady in their healing.

"You never loved me, did you?"

Lithuania bit his tongue.

"I know you didn't. You don't need to lie to keep me from being angry."

His bite didn't waver.

"Gilbert confuses me, da? Some days he loves me, some days he hates me." The trembling had yet to cease in the Siberian giant, and his thickly accented voice was no exception. "I want him to love me every day. Because I love him every day."

"You," Lithuania started. He was treading on thin ice. "You can't force someone..."

"Da," he nodded, "I know. I have known that for a long time. I know because of you."

The situation kept getting more and more dangerous, maybe for both of them even. The guilt pinched his heart a little, but it was not enough to quell the burning determination.

"I don't understand this at all. But I do know that I want Gilbert. And I want Alexei, and I want Nicholas. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"

"No," Lithuania breathed, and he knew the Russian was becoming calmer, not as easily upset, because it seemed that everything he said set him off like no other. "No, it's perfectly fine."

"Da."

He finished, and his boss flexed his fingers carefully from beneath cotton wraps. Russia still peered down at Lithuania curiously, and he'd let go of his anxieties for Russia at that moment to continue being the mother hen, but they were slowly returning when he realized that there was no longer a distance between them left.

"What is it I am doing wrong then?"

Again with the forced answers: Lithuania didn't want his opinion to leave him. Was Russia seriously asking him, or did he only want to hear what he wanted him to say?

"Mr. Ivan." The man blinked and waited, like a dog trained to sit for food. It was going to be hard, with him hanging on his every word. "You need to work hard for the things you want."

"Da, I am."

_No_, he thought, _why can't you understand?_

"You need to give Gilbert what he wants before you can get what you want."

Those were apparently the wrong words to say. He watched the Russian's face morph from harmless curiosity to confusion to realization to a soft and deadly anger. And he wasn't even sure how his comment could be that bad.

"Really?" he murmured slowly, dangerously. Lithuania nodded jerkily all the same, staring at Russia's deep plum eyes targeting his.

He felt the shadow of the nation grow icy, towering over him viciously, as if it were to swallow him up like a great wave in the sea.

A fist hurled itself into the cabinet beside his head, and he jumped in accordance, squeezing his eyes shut from the splinters and dust flying into his face, and the thought that maybe that other fist would connect with his cheek rather than the furniture.

They were silent as the debris settled, as Lithuania finally opened his eyes but held his breath, and his lungs shriveled like raisins in the sun and his lips turned blue, because any sound would kill them both.

Russia stared strongly at the smaller nation, his face inches from the other, his gaze unwavering. Lithuania finally let a frightened breath escape him, because he was going to pass out if he held it in any longer, and it was as quiet and shaky as a leaf falling from its tree.

He thought he was going to kiss him. He really did. His lips were almost touching his, and his eyes were as soft as anger was going to make them, and they were noiseless and unmoving, like two people catching each other's look from across a crowded room and realizing that it was love at first sight. Lithuania closed his eyes again, and felt Russia's lips move against his to form words as cold as what a kiss would have felt for him.

"Then I will never have what I want."

He removed his fist with a cracking noise as the rest of the cabinet fell to its broken shape, and Russia was gone as if he had never even been there.

Lithuania opened his eyes to a ruined kitchen, food forgotten and kitchen slightly destroyed, and took a breath before sliding to the floor.

Why was he always in the middle of this stupid lover's spat? Now he had both of them angry: angry with him, angry at their partners, angry at everything. And he wasn't sure how he could fix it.

"God have mercy," he hissed, running a trembling hand through his chocolate hair. He took a moment to collect himself before standing and cleaning up his kitchen.

It wasn't going to fix anything, but it was a start. And he had to start somewhere.

---

"You've been staring at that wall for ten minutes."

Prussia stared out the window, his chin propped up on his palm. "Yeah, and what of it?"

Germany sighed and turned to the Italian boy at his side, refusing to relinquish his hold on the twins. He stared down at the table solemnly.

"You came here to take your mind off things," Germany reminded softly, "not to ponder them from afar."

"I know."

But that didn't change anything.

Italy cooed under his breath at Alexei, who reached up and clapped his hands together in front of Italy's lips. He only kissed them silently.

The days were quiet, the thoughts heavy like lead. Germany had expected his brother to be bouncing off the walls, excited for his vacation outside of captivity, yet he could see the yearning in his eyes as he looked out the window and saw that wall the color of rainbows and death.

"Don't tell me you miss it."

Prussia didn't face him. "Then I won't tell you that."

Germany frowned, and felt Italy's thigh rub against his as he bounced Nicholas on it gently, making the babe squeal in delight.

"Bruder, please."

The albino let his eyes drift over to his brother, lazy and thoughtful and full of a resignation that Germany had only seen on the faces of men ready to die.

"He's killing you."

Prussia turned his eyes to the brunette across from him, as if avoiding Germany altogether, and watched him rock gently in his seat, mumbling Italian in honey-sweetened tones, lulling his boys into a gentle sleep. Italy returned the look with his own emotions doused in a subtle sadness, of love, and a tint of jealousy, yet plastered a thin smile to his rosy lips.

"I wish I were you, Gilbert."

"No!"

The sound of a chair scraping angrily across wood floor woke the twins quickly -the shout only a bonus- and they began to cry. But that didn't stop Germany.

"Don't wish that, Feliciano!" he barked, standing tall over the sitting Italian, who stared up at him with wide pained eyes. "Don't ever wish that!"

Italy lowered his head slowly, looking down at the wailing children and nodding submissively. He barely made any effort to shush them, and only held them tight to him. "...Okay."

As if wishing got anyone anywhere.

Prussia was all eyes and ears on his brother and his lover at that point, watching the Italian shrink down into the depths of a despair he was sure he didn't deserve for only _wishing_ he had children, children like himself, because he was just a little boy in a man's world.

Germany palmed his flat hair angrily, his teeth set to grit, his anger dissipating as quickly as it had come, and looked to the floor. Italy didn't say anything, the babies cried and cried, and Prussia watched his brother's every move.

"West," he whispered, barely heard over the unattended crying. He stood up slowly and met the Italian, whose head had not lifted, whose eyes were glued to the floor just as Germany's were, and Prussia found it a little fitting. He took the boys from the suddenly complacent arms and shushed them silently against him. As soon as the children were taken from Italy, he stood up quickly and turned on his heels, quietly leaving the Germans to themselves, and they were both feeling the heavy burden of knowing that that sweet child was hurting and they could do little to help it.

"You know," Prussia murmured, standing in front of his brother with his calmed sons nestled to each shoulder, "It's not as bad as you think it is."

Germany glanced up at him warily, face burning with frustration and guilt.

"I'm not lonely anymore. And Italy shouldn't be either."

Germany shook his head, and breathed heavily. "...I...I'm not sure how..."

"When I'm gone," Prussia answered, and he felt his lips smile, because he watched Germany tense and look to him with wide frightened eyes like he used to when he had a bad dream or the thunderstorms were too much for him, and the nostalgia flooded him like holy water. "When I'm gone, I want you to take care of them. I want Italy to have them."

"Bruder-"

"Something's going to happen," he interrupted, and he kept smiling like an idiot. "I know it will, because I can feel it. My people are angry. And when that wall crumbles down, I want you and Italy there to meet me, alright?"

For a moment, Germany didn't do anything besides stare at him with those blue eyes that could rival the pureness of the very color, but then reluctantly nodded his head and pressed his hands to his eyes.

"Okay," he whispered, knowing he couldn't fight his brother on this, and Prussia could hear it: the surrender. "Okay."

Prussia hadn't stopped smiling still, and he stepped closer to Germany to embrace him, but his arms were full of sleeping boys and all he could do was press them between their bodies. "Hey. It's alright."

Germany wrapped his arms around his brother and his little nephews, holding them tight to him as if Prussia were leaving right then and there, and he was going to be their father, and he hated it. Prussia felt his brother's skin shiver like he'd been left in the rain, and rested his head on the shoulder in front of his face and he breathed like he never had before. It felt great. He looked to the Italian boy cowering from behind a doorframe, watching Germany become upset, because he was _never_ upset, and he couldn't ignore him, even if he was hurt and his heart was broken and Germany couldn't understand that, because he loved Germany and Germany loved him. Prussia smiled at him, knowing Germany was ignorant of the brunette behind him, and breathed the same words to the unlucky boy.

"It's alright."

Italy's eyes were full of unshed tears as he nodded, gripping the doorframe a little harder before slinking back into the darkness of the house, hoping that Germany would eventually come and find him and apologize and everything would be good again.

But everything was falling apart and he knew it.

---

Russia was attached to the window. Lithuania watched.

His eyes drooped with exhaustion, of boredom, of daydreams. His thick nose was pressed to the chilly glass, despite summer being in full swing. His hair stuck to the glass as he kept his head against it, and his gloved fingers traced the wooden panes over and over and over and over again, and he'd blink every so often, and just as often, a soft breath would escape him in the form of a deep sigh, vibrating against the window from his temples.

"He comes back today," Russia whispered, not even sparing Lithuania a merciful glance. It was like he was stating the facts out of necessity, and not for conversational value; he didn't want to speak to Lithuania if he could help it.

Lithuania frowned, twisting his fingers in his uniform cuffs as he too stared out the window at the gray and vandalized wall with scribbles and words and pictures that resembled the workings of angry children rebelling against their parents with crayons and markers all over it. It made Lithuania sad.

"Yes," he whispered, acknowledging Russia despite not being acknowledged in return.

After a long moment of awkward silence, hinted with the squeaking of leather fingers stroking clear polished glass, a moment that was centuries for Lithuania, Russia slowly stood up, clothes rustling, and walked out of the room and outside. He left the door open after him, and Lithuania watched with concern as he stood motionlessly staring at the top of the wall, waiting patiently for a head of silver hair to appear from the other side with a pair of blondes, all smiling and calling for him, and he'd hope to embrace them all and kiss them and love them like nothing before, but that wasn't about to happen.

"Mr. Ivan," Lithuania muttered, knowing that Russia wouldn't reply even if he had heard it. The man had grown pitiful, but just as unpredictable if not more so. "Come insi-"

"Nyet," he interrupted harshly. He stared at the wall. "I am waiting."

Lithuania could not do much. He knew he couldn't stand up to this man. The day his patience had broken was the day Russia all but went insane with pain and disorder, and he'd been given the wallop of his life.

Lithuania watched worriedly from his window at the Russian standing stock-still and staring intently at that wall. It reminded him of a dog waiting for its master to come home.

Funny how wrong that sounded.

Hours past, and the sun rose higher in the sky, and then lower, and the sky was a purple and orange and pink and it was as if an artist had swirled it all together with his bare hands.

Red eyes peered over the wall, staring down at the Russian who stared right back. Lithuania could barely breathe.

"Hey," the albino called. And that was all that needed to be said.

From behind Russia, Lithuania watched his shoulders shrug up and down lightly in wretched sobbing, silent for his pride. He trembled as if it was winter, and maybe it was always winter for Russia, no matter where he was, no matter what season.

The man slipped down the wall with the help of the careful guards, tender with the handling of the squirming boys. He brushed himself off and smiled at Russia as if said man _wasn't_ crying, the man who had raped him and destroyed him and _conquered_ him.

It was terrifying.

"Hey, big guy," Prussia whispered, walking closer, despite how insanely dangerous that was. It was like poking a bear with a stick, except worse.

Russia sniffled quietly, not minding the warm awkward tears sliding down his cheeks, falling into the dirt by his feet. He hung his head and looked anything but safe.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he hissed into the wind, and Prussia's smile fell just a little, because that voice wasn't from the Russian he was used to, but of a _monster's_.

His arm was grabbed and squeezed until he couldn't even feel it anymore, and Prussia had to cry out _the boys_, _the boys!_ But that didn't deter Russia.

"Toris, come out."

Lithuania was afraid he would cry himself, for entirely different reasons. He bit his tongue and hurried outside on shaky legs, and tried not to look at the Prussian's horrified face. "Y-Yes, Mr. Ivan, what do you need?"

"Take them."

Lithuania could only nod and accept the worried boys into his arms. He let his eyes glance up a little from the ground, barely registering the strange blank look on Russia's face, hiding all his tricks and tortures from the albino in his grasp, like a spider to a moth.

Russia dragged the Prussian behind him by the arm, and Toris knew all too well what that grasp felt like, what that horrible confusion and anxiety did to one's head. He'd been in that same position too many times to count.

"What are you doing," Prussia hissed just loud enough to make it seem angry when it was only frightened. He clawed at the hand squeezing the blood from his veins, from his entire bicep, but it didn't help. The Russian was silent and wasn't fooling around, definitely.

They were in his office in just a moment's notice, and the heavy door slammed shut and the unfamiliar lock clicked into place.

There was that bed, Prussia saw, the bed he'd bled out onto until he was graced with two beautiful boys for his efforts, and it was the greatest gift he could have ever been given.

"What," he tried to voice, but he was promptly thrown onto the same bed he'd just been thinking of. And it all came back.

_No_. _Oh god, no, not again_.

Russia watched him from the foot of the bed cleaned and fashioned with new linens. His eyes told him nothing of his plans, what he wanted, what he needed, and it was as blank as paper, but he fucking _knew_.

Prussia sprawled out his limbs defensively, raising a shaky leg to level with Russia's abdomen, poised to kick out and destroy. His breath was quick, his eyes hazy with adrenaline, because he would have to fight if he were going to keep his self.

He wasn't going to let the same thing happen to him _twice_. Not if he could help it.

"D-Don't," he choked, and he bit his lip, because he was so quick to be overwhelmed. His leg was locked into position, cramped despite the desperation. He was waiting for Russia to attack, knowing it was going to happen. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Russia asked innocently, his voice low and calm, unlike his angry actions. "What shouldn't I do to you, Little One?"

Prussia wasn't about to voice it, as if it would set off the alarm and Russia would think it was reverse psychology and do it anyway. He merely held steady, poised for assault.

"Now, now," Russia cooed leaning forward ever so slowly, casting a shadow like a mountain in the afternoon. Prussia held his breath. "You look like a rabbit."

"Fuck you," Prussia bit out, his leg smarting angrily, "Why are you doing this?"

"I haven't done anything yet," Russia admitted, shrugging his shoulders, "and you should be glad I haven't."

Next thing Prussia knew, his leg was crushed underneath the Siberian nation's body as he covered him like an ominous shroud. Prussia could only inhale sharply before Russia stole the very breath he coveted with a well-aimed desperate kiss. The albino's skin froze, his body tense, but his insides were set on fire and he hated himself all the more. He had been ready to accept this role, but it kept being taken back and replaced, and he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

Russia crushed him into the bed, but made no movement to stop, or to continue. They were stuck in that moment, in that kiss, and that's all it was going to be.

He let up after a long heated moment, and when his head reared back, Prussia's nearly followed him, breath escaping loudly. His hands were pinned under Russia's larger ones and they twitched and curled as he panted against his lover's lips. The larger man had no plans of leaving, no plans of backing off even a bit, and he stayed in the intimate heat of Prussia for as long as he could.

"Stay with me," he said, his eyebrows furrowed with pounds of morose, tons of desperation. "Don't leave me ever again."

Prussia frowned.

It wasn't like Prussia had much else anymore, much less things that didn't involve the man straddling him. He had his boys, and he had those friendly little Baltic nations, and he had his brother.

West.

Prussia shifted his eyes somewhere that weren't in Russia's general area to try and calm himself as well as contemplate.

"Don't think about it," Russia all but whimpered; _whimpered_. "Just do it."

If only it were that easy; it'd make both of their lives so much simpler. Prussia didn't want to leave the man who'd captured him, the man who claims to love him more than anyone else ever, the father of his _sons_.

"...I ain't going nowhere," he hissed, the weight on his chest increasing beyond that of just this giant child laying over him, but that of a heavy heart. But he couldn't help it, not with those big purple eyes on the verge of tears and those lips trembling like that of a child who dropped his ice cream. "Never again."

Russia dropped his head to Prussia's collarbone, his shoulders shrugging up and down in silent and dry sobs. Prussia stared at the ceiling sadly.

He had lied.

Russia breathed in the smell of industrial Berlin, the successful Berlin, the happy Berlin, and grimaced in anger. Why couldn't that be his Berlin? The Berlin he owned was sad and cold and always angry and rebellious. Russia felt his ears burn with the lie that passed through them, that his lover would never leave him again.

He knew he would leave. He knew. Prussia could barely even control it, he supposed, because it was what his people wanted, not the nation. Russia wanted to believe that Prussia didn't want to leave, but they'd be forced apart and it was very romantic sounding, yet he knew that was a lie he was feeding himself just as everything else that came out of the albino's mouth that he believed blindly.

Russia kissed the neck nudging his nose, warm and pulsing with fast-paced blood. He didn't want this to happen, but he had tried everything, even brute force and violence, even if that seldom worked. His skin trembled and grew goose bumps at the reminder of what came of violence, of men and women starving and being thrown in jail for trying to feed their families, of government taking him over as if his people didn't matter, of little girls in white dresses splattered with dirt and blood and gore and it was _always his fault_.

He stared at the pale skin rising and falling shallowly, at Prussia with his closed eyes and serene face and barely there smile.

Russia kissed that face, and he hoped he still had time.

---

"Mama! Mama!"

Prussia watched Alexei stumble up and over a small hill in the park, catching an ankle in one of his steps and tripping forward onto the ground. The flowers he had been carrying were scattered all over him as he cried.

"Oh, come on," Prussia consoled, walking up to the little sobbing boy and picking him up, "It can't hurt that much."

"Th-the flowers-s-s I g-g-ot you are ru-ruined!"

Nicholas watched with curious purple eyes from his seat on the swing set, legs kicking in the sand.

Prussia looked down at his feet at the crushed posies, red petals thrown about sadly.

"Th-They w-were the c-c-color of your eyes-s-s!"

Prussia smiled, bouncing the tiny boy in his arms to reassure him. "Don't worry, baby. We'll find some more, okay?"

Alexei cried into his shoulder, wetting it with snot and tears and saliva and if Prussia had been the man he had been years before, he would have found it absolutely appalling. Now he seemed to find it endearing.

"Come on, Nicholas," Prussia called, and the boy immediately obeyed, sliding off his swing and waddling over to his mother. He took his hand silently. "We'll get Alex some more flowers."

"Th-they're for y-you!"

"We'll get me some flowers, then," he corrected with a nod, shushing the boy against his chest. Alexei nodded right back, and Nicholas did the same.

It was nearly the end of spring, the ground becoming dry and the flowers shriveling from the heat. Colors turned brighter, hotter, and little red posies decorated the park's farthest gardens, hidden by pine and fir. Prussia didn't want to so easily admit his old age as he ran after his blonde babies, tripping and waddling and giggling away any troubles they had had before, through forest brush and twisting in between trees and rocks. His breath was heavy, and he didn't have quite the stamina it took to chase too young boys through a forest.

"Jesus," he panted, tripping over a rock for the fifth time, "What am I doing?"

Nicholas had some sympathy, turning around unlike his determined twin, and returning to his mother loyally. Prussia only ruffled his hair and continued, albeit slower.

"Thanks, babe. It's lonely back here."

Nicholas agreed and latched onto Prussia's hand, guiding him down the path he knew his brother had taken, as it would have been the path he'd taken.

Alexei danced in the pile of red, of green and white. "Mama! Mama, I got them here!"

"I can see that," Prussia answered, crouching down to their level and rifling his hands through the soft dewy flowers. His boys sat side by side and picked them by the roots.

"Hey, hey now," Prussia chided, "don't take the roots, or nothing will grow."

The twins halted, looked up, and questioned him with two pairs of lively purple eyes. Prussia took a flower in his hand and snapped it in half from the stem.

"Leave the roots. It'll grow new flowers and you'll be less dirty."

The boys nodded, and Prussia watched them pick them correctly, the flowers still rolling in his hand, the white blood of the flower making his hands sticky.

"Hey," he voiced softly, and the boys stopped again. "I'll teach you how to make a flower chain."

The boys were mesmerized as Prussia took two flowers and tied them together at the thin green stem delicately, and went from two to four to eight to sixteen and then there was a crown, delicate and special. Prussia deposited it gently onto Nicholas's silvery blonde head, settling just over his very purple eyes.

"What about me?" the other twin cried, pushing his brother aside lightly, earning a half-hearted growl. Prussia smiled and got back to work, fingers working diligently to create another masterpiece, a green one this time, until he had another crown for his other boy.

"I love you, mama," Alexei confessed, standing up quickly and jostling the flower crown as he waddled into Prussia's lap. Nicholas slyly followed, taking a knee for himself, and repeated the declaration.

Prussia felt the boys wiggle into place, comfy in their mother's arms, dozing softly in the warm summery sun bursting through the tree leaves in rays that dazzled the flowers below, blotchy patterns of shade making masks on identical pale faces, black and white. He watched the leaves shimmer in the breeze, staring up at the mesmerizing blue above, and knew time was running out. How long? He closed his eyes, and cleared it away for the sake of the moment.

"I love you too."

---

Prussia had always wondered about Russia's father skills. He had seemed so determined, when they were just days old, only a year old, and then it suddenly stopped.

Russia never gave him a reason as to why he avoided them like the plague. He certainly didn't avoid Prussia, but he did so secretly, in the middle of the night when he though Prussia was asleep and he'd nuzzle his face into his neck and just _breathe_ for a few moment, as if Prussia were his only air supply and he'd been holding his breath all day. It made Prussia hazy with emotion. Beyond that, they'd meet in the morning before the boys were awake, sharing a breakfast or a cup of coffee or tea with kisses that tasted as such.

"They need to stay away," he mentioned one day, returning to his office for another worrisome day of overflowing paperwork, USSR documents, admissions to the Union, revolution attempts and failures, reports from Russian spies in America, the list went on and Prussia was never sure what the case was. All he knew was that Russia wanted his privacy and he wanted no little boys in there distracting him. That should have bothered Prussia, but he was growing weaker and weaker every day, and he wasn't about to fight his _commander_.

He wasn't about to tell Russia of his weakness, his loss of weight and his nearly constant headaches. Russia barely touched him anymore, and he laughed at the thought of them being an old married couple that only had sex on special occasions. And after having twins, Prussia wasn't about to risk getting pregnant again, unsure how Russia had pulled it off the first time anyway. He kept his distance just as Russia did.

He hoped the boys wouldn't be bothered by it, but it wouldn't be long until they wondered where their father was.

"Papa doesn't like us, does he."

It wasn't even a question. It was a statement.

Nicholas turned blaring purple eyes to Prussia who stared right back with surprise.

"Why would you say that?" Nicholas turned back to stare out the window.

"I never see him, so he never sees me. He doesn't want to."

"That isn't true," Prussia defended weakly, taking Nicholas by the hands and kneeling before him. Nicholas stared right into his eyes, searching only for a moment before _knowing_ he was lying. Prussia sighed. "He cares for you very much, Nick."

"Is that why he stays away from us?"

Prussia bit his lip and narrowed his eyes at his smart-aleck son. It hurt a little.

"He just doesn't know how to do it right," he explained, exhausted. Nicholas didn't look convinced. He frowned and yanked his hands away from his mother's.

"He should."

He stomped off, little brown boots clopping on the hard wood floor, and the only thing going through Prussia's head was that Nicholas was about to wake a sleeping beast.

He stumbled upright and after his son, hissing a _Nick don't you dare_ as he rounded the corners of walls. But his son was small and swift and he was already far ahead of Prussia and his old aching legs and pained breath, due entirely to the exhaustion of his people. Nicholas was already to Russia's office, opening the door and sliding inside, not even glancing Prussia another glance.

Alexei, who had been surveying the scene from his place on the stairs, intercepted Prussia before he reached Russia's office. "Are you afraid of him?"

Prussia tumbled to a stop, wheezing as he stared down at the boy sitting on the last steps, giving him the same look Nicholas had, a look of doubt, of mistrust, of loneliness, of _never knowing your father_ _even though he's only in the next room_.

Prussia wasn't sure how to answer. _No_, he wanted to say, _but yes_.

He ignored the question and bolted into the office, throwing the door open to the office.

Russia looked to him with unsurprised plum eyes, a tired smile slowly falling to his lips, and Nicholas did the same, curled in his fathers lap with hands splayed out on the desk, shuffling papers about carefully, as if he were organizing them.

Prussia took sharp breaths, and Russia spun his chair in a full circle, humming something Prussia recognized as a folk song he'd heard in a video game once, and Nicholas made a pleased noise as he clung to his father's scarf. Prussia sighed, but it hitched as he watched Alexei shuffle past him and to Russia, touching his knee and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Papa, he called softly, and Russia stared down at matching purple eyes and dull blonde hair, and it was like looking into a mirror centuries ago. He turned to Prussia slowly, watching the way his chest raised and fell in anxiety, of confusion, of exhaustion, and smiled a little brighter.

"They look just like me," he said, as if he had never seen them before in the 8 years of them being alive. Prussia watched as Alexei was hefted into his lap too and shrouded in his arms. He wanted it to be like this _always_.

"Come on," Prussia finally called, "leave papa alone. He's very busy."

The boys whined in unison kicking their feet against the underside of the desk, but it was Russia that settled them, kissing their hair that matched his so perfectly, whispering in soft Russian until they slid from his lap and came back into their mother's worried arms. Russia smiled at him.

"It was a nice surprise."

Prussia looked past that deadly smile to a man that promised punishment for interrupting him, for showing him the boys that he did not want to see. He wasn't sure when that punishment would occur, and he didn't want to think about it.

He pulled the boys out of the room and closed the door behind him, immediately kneeling and boxing both of the twins' ears. They cried out in pain and held their ears as Prussia scolded them.

"Don't you _ever _do that again!" he hissed, no longer playing games. The boys glared.

"Don't what, see our dad?" they spat, and Prussia was taken aback enough for them to run off somewhere where Prussia wouldn't ever find them, secret spots in cupboards and bushes in the garden where they could sulk and brood and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

They'll come out eventually, he mused, and as he stood back up, dizziness washed over him in the worst way, and he barely had time to stumble to a bathroom before promptly throwing up, retching loudly and painfully. Then there was _blood_

He stared down at the scarlet in the palm of his hand, speckled with bile and saliva and god did it _reek_. But it was there.

He wiped his mouth on his wrist, and more blood appeared. His mouth tasted of hot and heavy iron, spilling out and he thought it wouldn't end. He leaned his head farther, directly over the porcelain basin, watching the red stream out in a long, long, line that pooled in the disgusting water to form a circle of it.

He waited for it to end, which it did moments later, and every second that went on, it was like waiting for the axe to come down. He pulled himself up on shaky legs and washed his mouth out in the sink, ridding his hands of blood and sick, but not shaking his head of his predicament.

He sighed into the mirror, looking his pale face over with bright red eyes, as red as the blood blooming at the corners of his lips. He knew he couldn't keep it up much longer.

_How much longer do I have to suffer_?

Next time he looked at a newspaper, the time would come.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!

---

November 9th, 1989

He woke late that morning, to boys clambering onto his bed and jumping over his goose feather pillows and stirring up his sheets, and he had to pull them down and tickle them to death before they ran away squealing. He threw his legs of the bed and wanted to chase them, but the moment he tried to stand, he just couldn't.

He couldn't even stand.

His blood was on fire, and so was his head, splitting open like an orange. He took a few sharp breaths, but that didn't help in the least. _Come on Gilbert, you sick fuck_, he yelled at himself, _get the fuck up_.

Alexei ran back in with a grin on his little chubby face, clutching the doorframe in excitement. Prussia had to hold his agony in as the boy jumped up and down.

"Mama! There are people on the wall!"

Alexei ran out, and Prussia opened his mouth in a silent scream, spit dribbling from his mouth to his thigh as his breath was snatched from him and everything was burning.

_Stand the fuck up!_

His weight settled to his feet as he stood slowly, moving only inches at a time, he slammed his hand into a wall for balance as he moved one leg, then another, then the same again, repeating the process until he was at his door, clutching to the frame just as his son had been, but rather from excruciating anguish.

As he descended the stairs, each step feeling like another century of life being shed from him, centuries he was not _allowed_ to live. Not anymore.

Russia stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him with such wide sad eyes, he could have mistaken him for one of the boys, knees scraped and asking for him to kiss it all better, finding a dead rabbit and asking why it won't wake up; childish things that he'd wanted to take care of. But no, not today, not ever again.

"Where are you going?" he choked out, and the man before him wasn't his captor or boss or _lover_, this man was just a _boy_. And why was his toy leaving?

Prussia had no voice. Blood rushed into his mouth again, and it trailed thickly down his chin and down his neck into his shirt.

He took another step down the stairs, like a dying animal determined to find a place to die, alone and peaceful. Russia was there to block him.

"No," he commanded, his eyes quivering caught between sadness and anger and it was all rather maniacal. "No, you can't leave. I'll make you stay."

_Give it up, baby_.

Prussia kept going, another shaky step landing firm on an oak stair, and Russia was getting desperate. He knew, deep down, knew that Russia knew _all along_.

Finally at the bottom, he kept going, trembling, dying, dragging his body along with the sheer determination, the knowing that he had to do this or so god help him, he didn't know what would happen. His body just kept moving. He passed the stricken Russia, but he just grabbed hold of his wrist and ripped him back against him for support, despite the blood on his hands and on his clothes and that godforsaken scarf.

How many times had they shared that scarf on cold winter nights?

"No," he growled, not even trying to hide behind his constant façade of a naïve and innocent giant. He was feral, with teeth gritting and eyes glaring daggers and death right into his, and his grip was painful to his paper skin, his brittle bones. He was drying up.

The people roared outside and his body jerked in their direction, but the Russian held strong. "You're going to stay with me."

Prussia fixed him with a look, a look that didn't even break as he coughed out more crimson death that screamed what Russia could absolutely hear: _You know I can't_.

Things had already come undone. His people had rioted and they had obtained what they'd striven to get for 30 years: _freedom_.

Russia's boss was nothing in the face of millions of angry Germans, and not only Germans, but Americans, Russia's number one enemy.

"You promised!" Russia all but screamed in his face, like a child who'd been promised sweets only to find out there were none. Like someone he had known long ago.

You promised you'd take me with you, Vanya!

His eyes drew up tears that refused to stay back, no matter how strong his pride and furiousness, and they trailed down his cheeks just as the blood did down Prussia's chin.

He had known Prussia had lied. Of course he did. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

Prussia slid his bony hands forward and over Russia's crushing fists, and Russia wondered how he hadn't noticed his frailty sooner. He kissed him every night. But those long fragile fingers undid Russia's softening grip and brushed past him, leaving only his splatter of red behind. Russia followed him on close heels.

"You won't make it," he egged on in his ear, breath hot and cold at the same time, but Prussia did not shiver, could not shiver. His body kept moving. "You'll die before you reach him."

In the bright autumn day, he watched his people meet with their brothers from the other side, friends, family, people they'd never met before simply because there was a giant piece of concrete in the way the whole time. They cried out for freedom, for finally being a united Germany, _Germany_, and there would no longer be _Prussia_. Their bodies swayed in cheers and song and justified happiness that one seldom saw this side of the planet these days, of Cold Wars and Revolutions and Communism. His people were so happy.

Finally.

As he neared the wall, his peripheral vision caught the Baltics with his twins, both stopping as they saw their mother trudge toward the scene.

"Mama?" they called, but Prussia couldn't hear them anymore. He wouldn't hear them ever again.

He noticed them trying to break free of the Baltic nations firm grips, crying and screaming and throwing their bodies every which way in some sort of sickening dance, and Prussia didn't want to see that. He focused on meeting his brother, for the first and last time.

The crowd of civilians were unmoving, writhing with drunken joy and crawling up and over the wall and through the cracks and breaking down chunks of concrete with household hammers and mallets and anything hard enough to let them_ break free_. They did not clear away for their nation, did not notice him, and he was pushed and shoved about uncaringly like in that of a mosh pit, bodies jumping and bumping and throwing other bodies. His bones hurt, his everything ached, and few noticed the blood splattering onto them as he coughed after every jostle. Only a few more breathes left.

He searched the scene with dying eyes for that head of slicked back blonde, knowing it had to be there, among his people, just as he was among his own, both so happy and conquering.

There it was, he called to his body, making it move toward the face of his baby brother, grin wide and voice laughing and those were happy tears in his eyes, but not for long, he knew.

The people slammed into him, around him, and his blood was escaping him faster than he had hoped. He had at least wanted to touch his brother, feel him one last time.

"Bruder," was cried out over the West Germans, over the East Germans, but no, they were all just Germans now. They were all a part of the Motherland.

Germany's face was something to behold, right then, at the sight of those red, red eyes locked on him in a terrible way, of white hair gone too white, of blood gushing all over his front and Prussia was okay with it all of a sudden. It didn't really hurt anymore. His brother screamed, and Prussia smiled through blood stained lips, because he would have mentioned how that cry sounded so girly, but that moment wasn't there, and it never would be. Next thing he knew, arms were around him, big muscled arms, safe and secure, warm and familiar, and that's where he had always wanted to end his life: in this man's arms.

"Bruder," he whispered this time, his head crushed to Prussia's in a strong tight embrace that once he let off of, would be gone forever. So he kept it strong, kept it tight, kept it nice and warm for his brother as he let his mouth relax and let the blood in his lungs and his inside just _escape_. There it goes. "_Ich liebe dich_."

Purple eyes darted across the civilians, scanning for that white hair that stuck out like a sore thumb, but it was gone.

Fury engulfed the man, and he had no problem throwing his people to the side angrily to find the man within, his Prussia. He wasn't about to give up so easily. He opted for Germany, because if Germany was around, that's where Prussia would be.

Find the Nazi, find his lover.

But he stared down at the two brothers caught in an eternal embrace, the blonde crying heavily as if it were okay for him to show that weakness all of a sudden, and Prussia was dead, dead, as dead as his Anastasia.

The blood continued to flow, even though the man withholding it all was by far cold as death, but the German would not let go. He was the only German. Germany.

His eyes were open, which never sat well with anyone looking at the face of a dead man. They were half-lidded, as if he didn't even have the final strength to close them all the way. Red was still just as red even in death.

Germany looked up at Russia as he hovered over the broken brothers, tears erupting out of his puffy red eyes as he barked. "_I'll never forgive you_."

But it was not Russia's fault this happened. Prussia should have died more than 40 years ago, when they'd set up Germany's division after the war. Russia had only postponed it all by keeping Prussia for himself. He had remembered the day he had laid eyes on the captured Prussian, and he had never wanted something so badly before. Those eyes challenged him, scoffed, and even smirked, as if saying _I bet you don't have the balls_.

To think that same object of desire was cold and unmoving and eerily seeing forever, dying with nothing left to his name, no one remembering, no one wanting to. He had no strength left, no challenge, only acceptance, and that was boring.

But Russia was the same, wasn't he?

He turned, and he walked away.

The deafening cries of freed Germans echoed in his ears as he drew back, steps trembling, but no one could tell through those heavy boots and thick coat.

One step at a time.

The boys screeched. He'd never heard anything so absolutely miserable as that, and he watched Alexei rip himself from Lithuania and run toward the scene, where his mother had disappeared for good. He tumbled and scraped his knees in the concrete sidewalks, but he kept running. Nicholas had also broken free from his restraining Estonia, running faster than his brother had, more focused, more determined, right into his brother, tugging him back, away from the wall, into his arms.

"No!" he screamed in protest, pushing and kicking Nicholas as hard as he could, and they would have put it aside as a fit or brotherly quarrel had it been any other moment. Alexei clawed Nicholas's face, but the boy did not relent, even as his cheek became scratched and red and bleeding and his limbs were to turn black and blue and green from all the bruises those kicks caused. "No! Lemme go!"

Nicholas held his head to his chest, even as the boy bit him and cried salty tears into his wounds. He was crying too, but he took deep breaths, choking on his words, his choice words.

"Stop it, Alex," he whispered. And Alexei stopped.

A wail erupted from the boy, ear shattering and horrifying, and Russia watched Lithuania turn away and bow his head, shoulders trembling lightly.

A scream of _Mama!_ Tore through the air, through the whistles and laughter and happiness, but no one paid it any mind. They were _free_.

Too much was happening, so little was happening, and Russia just stared at the wall. Nothing more could be done.

He stood there for hours.

When the crowd dispersed for the night, nothing was left. There was no sign of there ever being a dying nation just between the walls. The blood was gone, as if it had never even been there. There was rubble, trash, but no body, not even dust.

An iron cross lay surrounded by crumbed wall, colored with graffiti with stickers and phrases and butterflies and what one would call art. An iron cross.

He picked it up, rubbing the dirt from the shiny glazed covering, and stared at it.

He put it in his pocket, and that was the end of it.

---

Italy smiled up at Germany, bouncing the boys in his lap as they watched a television program quietly. Germany smiled back. Italy had never looked happier, with two little humans so near to him, so loving towards him, as if they were his own.

They were, now.

They were getting bigger, he mused, almost to Italy's waist. They were in school now, and Nicholas was so smart, always reading and learning all he could, and Alexei was quite the socialite.

"Hey, how about we go out for a walk?"

The twins turned in unison, as if it were all planned, and looked Germany over with purple eyes he doubted he would ever get used to before nodding and hopping off Italy's lap to get their shoes on.

It had been awfully easy to get the children from Russia. Only months after Prussia's demise, nation after nation began breaking away from the union, and Russia was becoming more and more placid. His house was so big, yet so empty, and the boys reminded him of what he'd had and what he'd lost, and it made him negligent, as if he weren't already. It made Germany upset, wondering when the day would come when Russia snapped and drowned them in the river. He'd proposed the idea to the Russian and he'd agreed with little struggle, kissing his boys before sending them away forever.

It was for the best, he supposed, before he hurt anyone.

"Let's go!" Alexei called excitedly, taking hold of Italy's hand and dragging him out into the winter. Nicholas followed obediently, stealing the German a pondering glance.

The streets of Germany were alive at that time of year, Christmas lights covering the trees and shop windows bright with presents and wares. The sidewalk was always bustling. Germany took Nicholas by the hand just as Italy had for Alexei, and led them down the streets of Berlin for a sweet evening stroll.

"Vee~" Italy cooed, shaking Alexei's hand in his, "It's so pretty!"

Nicholas nodded, and Alexei grinned. "Yeah!"

The stars twinkled as if reflected off the streetlights, heavy yellow and glowing.

"Our birthday is coming up soon," Nicholas commented quietly, taking his brother's hand in his, and Alexei nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah! What are you gonna get us, mum?"

Italy smiled. He'd always wanted to be called that. The circumstances shouldn't have been smiled at, oh god no, but then was a special occasion. "Something delicious."

"I don't like pasta," Nicholas commented gently, and Italy whined. Germany had to smile. "I never said it was going to be pasta!"

"It's always pasta, mum." Italy pouted and continued down the streets of Berlin.

"Well this time I'll surprise you!"

"You said that last time I asked you not to get us pasta."

Italy cried.

Germany laughed.

Things weren't going to be the same. Not by a long shot. Those boys looked just like their father, their face becoming less chubby and more set, noses curving just as their father's did, and there was little to sign of Prussia in them at all.

But there was Alexei.

That attitude didn't just show up on its own. That grin couldn't be pulled off by just anyone.

That was his brother's smile.

"Can we get some candy apples?" Alexei asked, turning to Germany and smiling innocently, just as his brother would.

Hey West, can you make me some pancakes? Please?

He would ask him that every morning. _Go hang out with Canada, if you want pancakes so badly_, he'd say. And Prussia would laugh. _But West, I'm lazy!_

It hurt. It hurt like all the acid in his stomach revolting and burning him away inch by inch, but he would never be rid of it.

He looked into the shop window, big caramel apples displayed on thick wooden skewers, some topped with white chocolate, some with marshmallows and peanuts and a hundred other things he didn't think you could put on apples, and nodded.

"Of course."

He didn't want to forget a single thing about his brother, even the stupid little things like what knot he used to tie his boots or the way he liked his eggs or his favorite movies, full of action and idiotic dialogue and plots. He would remember the beautiful things, like ho he looked when he looked at his boys, how soft he looked when he slept, how out of the thousand dumb things that came from his mouth daily, there was always one thing that stuck out, that was pretty and thoughtful and as rare as it was, it was always appreciated.

"I want this one, dad!"

"Whichever one you want."

It would always hurt. He wanted it to hurt. Hurting meant it was special, meant it was meaningful enough to remember.

He was okay with that.

He wasn't going to forget anytime soon.

---

rushed ending is rushed. WOOSHHH. The end.

Thank you, Lucrecia, for the absolutely gorgeous fanart. You made me the happiest girl in the world, no lie. I would love to see more! :)

And thank you all for reading and for all my fans who stuck around to read this even though I am terrible with updating and I'm sure you're all upset about it haha. Sorry again.

-BTW-

"a folk song he'd heard in a video game once" = Tetris

haha. I am one hilarious bitch.

I love you guys.


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